When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “I didn’t ask you to.” No, she’d reconciled herself to the fact that her husband’s pride created a fog so thick that not one sunray of rationality could pierce it. However unpleasant Eric’s father was, he couldn’t be worse than Atticus Orca. Regardless, Eric chose to tolerate the abuse of that man rather than embrace his birthright, which he deserved.

  “You’re just demanding I reconcile for the money,” Eric crossed the discus in his hand against his body, stretching his arm, “and money is shallower than glory.”

  “I’m not demanding you reconcile.” She looked to the leaves that rustled above her. When men grew older did they realize the foolishness of stubbornly choosing the glory of pride over the common sense of a full belly? Obviously not, since as Eric told it, his father still acted exactly like him.

  “I never felt this guilty saying no to Gwen. Never. Not even that time ten years ago when Wryn and I used her dolls for archery practice.”

  “Why do you compare me to your sister so much?” Cara prodded the hole in her boot sole.

  “My father’s controlling.”

  She nodded.

  “Now you say, ‘No more than mine. My father was forcing me to marry a man I didn’t want. Did your father do that?’”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Eric gripped a sapling trunk in a stranglehold. “Then I say ‘No, he selected my career, which is worse.’”

  She stared at him.

  “Now you say ‘Not worse! You can give up a tribune position after a few years. You’re stuck with who you marry the rest of your life.’ You should yell it.”

  She cocked her head. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

  “Then I say, ‘Yea, well guess you’re stuck with me and my stulte way of not taking help from my familia.’”

  “I love being married to you.”

  He jerked his hand up. “Stop saying that!”

  “May we take our seats?” She bounced Lucia and glanced down to the competitors milling on the green grass below the spectators.

  Eric groaned. “My father has the best bench in the amphitheater. I’ll go say salve and ask him if you and Lucia can sit with him. I should check that he received our message, but this does not mean I’m taking his money.” Eric walked down the hill through the forest behind the amphitheater.

  Her interact with the Paterculis? Cara’s mouth went dry. She ran her gaze down the amphitheater seats. The legate of the province and his eldest son, Wryn, sat in the amphitheater at the bottom of the valley. The Paterculis were patricians. Patricians. She was the loose girl who’d led their son to degradation.

  Leaves crinkled. She glanced toward the sound on her right. Kelwyn, Edna’s brother, stood a stone’s throw away wearing the white tunic of a patrician. He held a shiny discus. He met her gaze and broke into a run.

  Clutching Lucia so tight the baby cried, Cara ran, leaves flying under her pounding soles. “Eric!” she screamed. “Eric!”

  At the bottom of the hill, before the trees gave way to the road and crowd, Eric turned back.

  “Eric.” She grabbed his arm. “I think Venus lied. Your father’s here, and I just saw Kelwyn dressed as a patrician. What better place for an assassination than a crowded amphitheater?”

  The discus fell from Eric’s hand. “You’re right. Quick, let’s go to my father and – ”

  Leaves crunched on every side of them. Cara felt her gaze jerk up.

  A dozen masked men surrounded them.

  “You can’t be lovely and quick-witted. Didn’t I tell you that?” Victor leaned back against an alder tree a pace away. “You should have listened.”

  Dread stopped her heart, and because of the pentathlon, Eric wore no short sword. He swung forward with his fist. Three men grabbed Eric’s arm. Another man grabbed her. She screamed. The man clapped his filthy hand over her mouth.

  “My father’s trained in combat.” Eric struggled against the men. He whipped one back against a tree. “You’ll die trying to kill him.”

  Tingles ran through Cara’s hands.

  “No, I won’t.” Victor pointed up the forested embankment. “The moment I crest that hill and give the signal, my men will tell Kelwyn to hurl the discus. It will be an unfortunate accident when it hits your father and Britannia loses its legate. A passing food hawker has already poisoned your brother’s cup.”

  Pinpoints of light shone in her consciousness as the trees around her started to go black. Cara’s knees went weak. She kicked back with her heel. The ruffian holding her slammed her against a tree. Lucia screamed.

  Another man piled on Eric, forcing him to still, but Eric betrayed no emotion. “Your plans for Cara and me?”

  Victor flicked his gaze to her, irritation in his eyes. “Why is she always everywhere?”

  Her pulse raced.

  “I married her,” Eric said.

  “Yea.” Victor groaned. “Why?”

  “Some people have integrity.”

  “I drugged you,” Victor spat the phrase out.

  “What?” Eric jerked toward Victor, slamming another man against a tree.

  “To find out what you knew. I drugged you so deeply you would have murdered your own father if I suggested it, and she,” Victor pointed his chin toward Cara, “she was working harder on seducing you than a harlot short of coin.”

  Cara’s gut twisted. Terror rushed through trembling muscles, and the spell’s thoughts came back. Guess it doesn’t take any wits to be a harlot. As if we’d believe the word of a harlot. She’d done this to Eric. She.

  “Yet you marry her?” Victor shook his head. “Without her help, you’d never have discovered our plans, and I wouldn’t have to order my men to run you through with a knife after I crest that hill, so she’s to blame for that, too.”

  Eric quirked his eyebrow up, his voice eerily level. “You’d really murder me, Victor?”

  “I’m no weakling. Bind them.”

  The masked men dragged Eric’s arms behind his back.

  Scream after scream stuck in Cara’s throat.

  Forcing Eric down to his knees, they looped the thick rope around his wrists and knotted the cord to an oak tree. Grabbing another length of rope, the men turned to her.

  Chills raced up and down her spine. Her numb hands barely kept their grip on Lucia.

  Eric met Victor’s gaze. “Let Cara go.”

  Victor looked to her. “After she heard my plans? You’re the fool, not me.”

  “She’s a plebeian woman. No court of law would admit her word against you.” Eric held Victor’s gaze. “Let her go.”

  Victor raised his shoulder, crumpling the brown tunic he wore. “Why risk it?”

  “Let her go.” Eric’s voice had the harshness of iron.

  “You’re probably right.” Victor let his gaze stray to Cara, and she trembled. “The word of a woman of dubious morals is notoriously unreliable. Which makes me wonder, if you really remember nothing from that night, why believe her that the babe’s yours and marry her?”

  “I’ll be dead, so what’s it matter?” Eric flattened his bound hands against the tree bark. “Let her go.”

  “I don’t suppose I need a woman’s blood on my hands yet, what with everything else I intend today.” Victor motioned to two guards. “Take her to their hovel and keep her there.”

  Sweat clung to Cara’s skin. For a moment, Eric met her gaze, and then the guards shoved her forward.

  Cara stumbled. The guards propelled her on. A few people milled in the streets, but one look at the rough men and the villagers disappeared into their houses.

  Blood pounded through her, the houses lining the street fading in and out. Cara fell to her knees. Please God, save Eric. If You listen to sinners like me, save Eric!

  Her breath came in heaving gasps.

  They had his hands tied.

  He didn’t even have a knife.

  “Keep moving, girl.” The burly guard grabbed her arm and threw her upright.

  Cara stumbled on.
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  “You wouldn’t do this.” Eric strained against the ropes. The hemp fibers twisted around each other, too thick to break.

  “Why not?” Victor rested his hands on his belt as the masked men positioned themselves behind him, guarding the eastern edge against any pentathlon-goers who might wander into these woods. “The Ocellis and Paterculis have feuded for twenty years.”

  “You trained with me for the pentathlon.” He needed to keep Victor talking. Eric strained against the bonds. What had the man at the docks said about escaping ropes?

  “You knew I had no morals. Isn’t that what you harangued me about a moment ago?”

  “Morals, no, but murder? Also, you’ll lose your head for this.” Eric chafed one hand against another, feeling for any give in the rope.

  “I’ll not get caught. The Viri won’t let me.” Victor stepped forward, toward the rise of the hill and the amphitheater.

  “I counted you a friend. Turn away from this path.” Back and forth, Eric chafed his hands against each other in a washing motion.

  “I only befriended you to gather information on your father.” Victor moved another pace ahead.

  The discus throwing would start at any moment.

  “Those hours throwing javelins, running footraces, three months trading insults in Moesia, all that left no bond of friendship between us?” Hands washing over each other, Eric increased the pace of the motion. The first loop of rope loosened. He scratched at it with his thumb. Still too tight.

  “I kissed your girl at her father’s shop, almost did more if the blacksmith hadn’t come along. Oh, and I ordered pirates to capture your ships. Those are no acts of a friend.” A discomforted look hung in Victor’s eyes.

  The wretch. “You’re still not a murderer. Dismiss these men, abandon this plan. I can promise you my silence.” Eric washed his hands over each other faster yet. Still no play in the rope.

  “So I can die at the Viri’s hand? I have no desire to travel the river Styx to Hades quite yet.”

  “My father can protect you.”

  “Protect from the Viri? Ha!” Victor narrowed his eyes, a darkness in them that hadn’t resided there a year ago. “I’m not like you. I want to ride the waves of political influence, accumulate wealth untold, and I’ll kill to get what I want.”

  “No, you’re not like me.” The first loop of rope gave way. Eric tugged it over his hand and scraped the second forward with his thumbnail. The third gave way. He glanced back the way Cara had gone, but ten guards barred his exit to the rear and attempting that suicide would aid no one.

  “When I’m gone, stab a knife through his ribs.” Victor sprinted up the hill toward the amphitheater to give the signal to end Father’s life. If he saved Father, he’d send legionaries to rescue Cara.

  Throwing the ropes off, Eric hurtled forward.

  One pace, two paces, the guards behind him yelled and ran toward him. Eric increased his speed. Victor glanced back. For one moment he hesitated, and then he ran faster.

  Eric’s lungs burned. Even when he’d trained every day, he hadn’t run as fast as Victor. The forest leaves turned to grass, the guards a dozen paces behind him now. His feet slapped against the grass.

  Blood surged through his veins as he raced faster. He grabbed Victor by the shoulder. Throwing him down, Eric lunged for Victor’s dagger.

  Victor dug the blade beneath Eric’s ribs. Blood spurted from Eric’s side. Victor sprung to his feet and ran on.

  The guards lunged for him. Eric clasped his hand to his side. Blood soaked his tunic. Throwing himself to his feet, he ran.

  Victor reached the embankment first. The noise of merrymakers rose from the stadium, too loud for any single voice to gain attention. Victor gestured to a masked man on the field. The masked man signaled to Kelwyn.

  Father and Wryn sat at the lowest seat on a bench apart from the others. Eric looked to the discus throwers. Kelwyn strode to the starting line and raised his discus.

  “Father!” Eric crashed through row after row of spectators, shoving food hawkers left and right as he fell down the embankment of merrymakers.

  Father glanced up. Kelwyn flung the discus. Eric clipped his hand against Wryn’s drink as he shoved Father to the earth. “Cara, at the docks.”

  Something hard glanced off Eric’s skull, and all went black.

  Clutching Lucia to herself, Cara paced within the confines of the narrow walls. Eric. Eric. The thud of feet marked the guards pacing outside the hovel. Her blood raced through cold fingers and trembling legs. Eric.

  A cry rose. A multitude of heavy footsteps sounded outside. Something splintered against wood.

  The door’s hinges broke and the panel fell. Red plumes and metal armor glinted in the light outside. A man stepped through their ranks, armorless in a white linen tunic. Eric’s father.

  Cara ran forward. “Where’s Eric?”

  “A discus hit him. He’s unconscious but alive. The physician tending him now says he’ll recover fully.”

  Eric. Cara’s knees collapsed as the room spun. The legate extended his hand, but she grabbed the wall.

  The legate ran his gaze around the shabby hovel, taking in each broken cup and worn rag. “Collect what you and he need. I’m taking Eric to Camulodunum.”

  A man with bulbous rings shoved through the circle of soldiers. “Where’s Eric?” Atticus Orca demanded. “I expected those tablets counted by now. He owes me six-hundred denarii, after all.”

  Legate Paterculi turned toward her. “What does Eric owe that man money for?” His tone held suspicion.

  He could give his son a little more credit. Lucia whimpered and Cara bounced her. “Eric had a trading venture. Gold goblets from Dacia to sell here. Pirates captured both ships. We still owe the balance.”

  “A trading venture?” The legate raised his eyebrows, an impressed look in his eyes.

  Cara met the man’s gaze. He should be impressed by his son. “Eric planned it out because the price of Dacian gold fell. He got an equestrian to back it.”

  The legate turned to Atticus Orca. “I’ll pay my son’s debt.”

  Cara stepped between them and dared to confront the legate of the province. “Eric doesn’t want your help.”

  The legate glanced down to her, his gaze commanding, but not as terrifying as she’d imagined. “I have the right to help my son.”

  “He’s had enough choices made for him. He deserves to make this one himself.” Cara sucked in a breath. Certainly this was the time when the legate ordered her to garrison jail, or ran her through with a short sword himself.

  Instead, Legate Paterculi gazed respectfully at her. “Very well, I was a little hard on Eric last fall, but he’s proving himself now, which is what I wanted anyway.”

  She dropped her gaze to Lucia’s wavy hair. “I didn’t mean you. I meant me.” He hadn’t even born the responsibility of choosing to drink. Victor drugged him.

  The legate slanted one eyebrow. “Eric called your name before he passed into unconsciousness. I don’t think he finds himself dissatisfied.”

  For a moment, Cara dared to meet his gaze.

  “We had harsh words, Eric and I, but I didn’t mean to condemn him, and you, and this lovely babe, what’s her name?”

  “Lucia.” Cara stared at the legate. He treated her like a patrician woman, worthy of having married his son. Nay, better than that. Like a patrician man.

  “Lucia.” The legate brushed his finger against the babe’s cheeks, a gentler touch than she’d have thought from a commander of armies. “I didn’t mean to condemn the three of you to destitution. I was just angry with him, or as my wife’s told me all spring, completely incapable of communicating in a non-pugnacious manner.”

  Cara tilted her head and studied the man. The legate’s chin angled the same as Eric’s.

  “I meant to help him, despite what he did.” The legate crossed his arms. Anger flashed from his eyes, fierce judgment flames.

  He hadn’t forgotten how a plebeia
n girl had stolen his son. Cara dropped her gaze to the dirt. “I’m sorry I ruined any chance of Eric making an advantageous match.”

  “I wasn’t angry he married you.” The legate raised his hand, a square hand that had probably killed hundreds of Rome’s enemies. “If Eric hadn’t said he’d marry you, I’d have forced him myself.”

  The legate would have what?

  “Even without the babe, if Eric had come to me and said he wished to marry a centurion’s daughter, I’d have taken no issue with it.”

  No patrician allowed their heirs to marry plebeians. Ever. Cara stared at the legate.

  “After all, I married a native woman.” The harshness of steel entered the legate’s voice. “What I wanted to wring my son’s neck for was his utter disdain for the most basic of Christian morals. A reprobate party, an almost betrothed girl, a child, I taught him better than that.”

  What the legate raged at his son for was her wantonness. Heaviness sunk through Cara’s chest. “It wasn’t Eric’s fault.”

  “It was completely Eric’s fault, and before you say what he said, I don’t allow drunkenness as an excuse. Men choose to drink, and I hold them entirely responsible for whatever actions they embark on in that chosen state.” The legate tensed his jaw, his frame as stiff as if he wore armor.

  Eric had spoken the truth when he said drunkenness served as no excuse to his father. Eric hadn’t drunk, though. Victor had drugged him. She’d been the one to-whatever word one would use to describe the horrid thing she’d done to him. Eric had forgiven her, but that didn’t mean his familia ever would. Cara opened her mouth to say it, then closed her mouth again.

  To say such things in front of unrelated men broke the bounds of propriety. The truth would have to wait until Eric awoke and told his father.

  She shivered, but Eric said he’d never leave. Whatever the Paterculis soon thought or said of her couldn’t prove worse than those five weeks of Camulodunum shame.

  Could it? These were patricians.

  Gaze on her, the legate gestured to the dock overseer. “Will you not tell Eric if I settle his debt with this sniveling wretch?”

  “I don’t wish to keep secrets.” She shifted her feet in the dirt.