For Life or Until (Love and Warfare Series Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi

  He touched her shoulder. “You’re drawing attention,” he whispered.

  Frowning, she tried to twist around to answer, but that made it worse and she narrowly escaped flipping her plate. She sank into the couch and attempted to ignore the wooden couch frame digging into her right thigh.

  Had the spring festival in her village happened yet? The chariot races, the hearty stews, the new planting, it could happen even tonight. If it did, she hoped Cedric choked on a venison bone. No, that was vicious. She wished him long life and happiness and many children. All right, she wasn’t quite saintly enough to wish him all that.

  A reader walked up front. She tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position without tearing apart her all too flimsy stola.

  The brand on the reader’s cheek marked him as a slave, but he read in flawless Latin, “Tarquinius Superbus erat rex Romanorum—”

  The story unfolded. Years ago, before the Roman republic, some Tarquin king raped Collatinus’ wife, Lucretia. The Romans overthrew the Tarquin king, then Lucretia killed herself because of the indignities committed against her. Apparently, it was acclaimed literature.

  Ness felt her face twisting in disgust. Why would Lucretia kill herself for another’s crime?

  The reader finished the story with the words, “And Lucretia is to this day a glorious example of the value Roman women place on honor and chastity.”

  Raising herself on one elbow, she moved her mouth close to Aquilus’ ear. “That’s the end?”

  “Yes, of course, noble ending. You’ve never heard the story before?”

  “Noble ending? It’s a sickening tale.” Collapsing back on the couch, Ness raised her voice above a whisper.

  He placed a restraining hand on her arm. “This is not the place to discuss it.”

  From the couch across the table, Bernice lifted her chin up underneath a ridiculous hairstyle. Her countenance looked even more conceited than usual. “You do not like our Roman stories?”

  “What’s to like?” Ness regained a semi-comfortable position on her elbow. Aquilus agreed with her. He just didn’t want to create a scene.

  “It’s a noble tale of virtue. Or do Celtic women not value purity?” Bernice parted her lips in a sneer.

  Ness clenched her dining utensil. “Of course, Britains value purity, but we focus our wrath on revenge.”

  “Ness,” Aquilus cautioned with a raised eyebrow.

  Oh, right, not creating a scene. Though her hands still trembled with anger, Ness forced herself to tear off a piece of stale roll. Oh, to dig her hands into floured dough once more as Mother hummed a tune and Enni fussed over the fire. The Paterculi cook wouldn’t allow her to so much as touch her kitchen.

  “No further response?” Bernice arched her dark eyebrows. “Or perhaps after his long stay in the provinces, your husband wishes to defend Celtic practices? Your wife says you believe the Celtic way of life superior in every way, Tribune Paterculi.” Sweeping her long lashes high, Bernice fixed her gaze on Aquilus.

  The consul slapped his baggy chin on his hand. “What’s this? Not turning native, are you? You have spent far too many years away from Rome.”

  Aquilus pressed his mouth together as he flicked his gaze toward Bernice, then pointedly turned away from her. “And I’m elated to return home, of course, Consul. Now, about Germanian trade.”

  Aquilus’ and the consul’s voices rose and fell as they talked about foreign politics and trade.

  Narrowing her painted eyes, Bernice flicked a crumb off the table with fingers that reeked of perfume. “And I thought you knew him so well.”

  She knew exactly what the abhorrent woman meant. Bernice thought Aquilus had just as small-minded a view of women as other Roman men. Bernice mistook Aquilus. He merely held his peace out of respect for the host, a family friend. He agreed with her about women. She moved her gaze to Aquilus who’d lost himself in conversation with the consul, then to Bernice with her smug victory smile. He’d understand if she disrupted the table a little.

  Raising herself on one elbow, Ness took the challenge for her husband and all the free Britains whom Rome had ever conquered. “Take Boadicea.” She let her voice grow loud enough for the entire table to hear. “Boadicea reigned over the Iceni tribe in Britannia only three decades ago. When the Romans violated her daughters, she didn’t kill the girls. She killed the Romans.”

  Bernice drew back, rumpling the red couch. “Boadicea? Didn’t she rebel against the Emperor?”

  “Yes, very successfully. People still tell stories of her in a war chariot, flaming red hair, gold torc, sword raised high.” Ness smiled. The village elders used to tell this tale on feast days.

  With a gasp, Bernice clasped a manicured hand across her mouth. Five sets of disapproving eyes turned to Ness.

  The sixth pair, Aquilus’, weren’t just disapproving. He looked, angry? No, that couldn’t be. “Ness—” he started with determination.

  The consul began spluttering so loudly no one else could speak. “Are you related to Boadicea?”

  A ‘no’ almost escaped her lips, but she saw the consul’s beady eyes and let temptation win. “Perchance.” She noted Aquilus’ hand tightening on her shoulder. If he didn’t want her defending him to Bernice, he should open his mouth and defend himself.

  The sagging bags of the consul’s neck flew up as he jerked to a sitting position. “Are you Britains planning another rebellion?”

  Obviously, this man had obtained his post through political favors rather than frontier experience, or he wouldn’t be so gullible. That, and he’d just finished his eighth goblet of wine.

  “Answer me.” The consul emphasized his words with a portly arm.

  Aquilus started to interrupt.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position. “If you’re too ignorant to know yourself, do you truly think you should be consul?” All right, so that last barb she’d uttered for herself, not Aquilus.

  A superior sneer lifted the praetor’s mouth. Bernice made a nervous noise. The consul leaped to his feet, stomach wobbling to catch up.

  Plunking his wine goblet on the table, he glared in Aquilus’ direction. “You have not heard the end of this insult.”

  Wait, why did the consul direct his anger at Aquilus? She’d insulted the man. He should rage at her. Gaze on the red couch fabric, she scraped her fingernail against the fibers. Had defending Aquilus turned into causing strife with his political connections? Perhaps she should have kept her mouth closed.

  The consul stalked away.

  Thin lips parting, Praetor Ocelli tapped his ringed fingers against the table. “One would think a man who commanded legions could control his own wife.”

  Aquilus clenched his engraved cup as if he would break it. “Horace,” he muttered.

  She groaned. Had he lost his composure too? She’d only meant to defend him, though it had all gone rather wrong.

  With every passing moment, the disparaging stares of everyone at the table only grew in intensity. At least another two hours before they could politely leave this gathering.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, Aquilus brought up talk of the Circus Games Emperor Domitian had engineered, the Senate’s bickering, and even news from the frontier. Good. The smallish scene she’d created hadn’t shaken him.

  A little later, while slaves served the male guests more wine—for some ludicrous reason, Roman women were considered loose if they drank alcohol—Aquilus signaled her attention.

  “We’re leaving.” His voice left no room for argument.

  She blinked. He sounded furious. Had Praetor Ocelli said something to anger him? She’d counted the brush strokes in the painting of Athena above them for the last half-hour rather than listening.

  With a shrug, Ness rose from the dining couch leaving only her imprint in the red cloth for the Roman women to mock.

  Dark clouds rolled over the sky, obscuring the last rays of sunshine. The rumble of thunder filled the empty streets. The first spatters of rain hit
the flimsy fabric of Ness’ stola, and she shivered.

  Hitching up her tunica, she wrapped her arms tighter around herself. The rain had subdued the odor of filth and refuse, but it also carried rank liquids over her ankles. Here and there, a glow of light appeared around doors or in windows, but no moonlight penetrated the blackness above. “I hate rain.”

  Aquilus rolled his eyes. “I told you to take a litter.”

  Turning, she looked at him. He glared into the dark clouds. She touched his arm where rain beaded on his dark skin. “Are you angry with me?”

  “You think I enjoy earning the enmity of consuls?” He kicked the water that pooled between the street stones. Mud splashed up over his sandals.

  She pulled back from him, leaning against a house wall. “I was only trying to defend you to Bernice.”

  “Defend? If that’s what Celts consider an ally, no wonder Boadicea lost to Rome.” He kept walking, feet slamming against the stone at a clipped rate.

  The brick of the house behind her scraped against her back as she stared at his back. He’d just insulted her entire people. She’d tried for him. Left her land, worn the Roman clothes, tolerated the ill-treatment of dominas to attend his dinners. She kicked a pebble into the air. It splashed into murky water as she started walking again. If he appreciated her efforts so little, perhaps she’d stop trying.

  The sound of sandals clapping against the pavement and the splash of rain pooling in puddles filled her senses as Aquilus refused to talk to her and the half-hour walk stretched interminably in the silence.

  She snuck a glance at Aquilus. How angry was he? She did regret alienating that consul, though did one want allies that prejudiced?

  Why couldn’t Aquilus understand she’d confronted Bernice to defend him? Her foot slipped on a loose stone and rancid water sloshed up her stola.

  Finally, the stark angles of the Paterculi house rose in the shadows in front of them. An elderly slave met Aquilus at the door. She hurried past him, through the darkened atrium, to the small fire in the tablinum. Besides shelves of scrolls and a wooden table covered with wax tablets, the room held various marble busts.

  With a shiver, she stretched her hands over the fire and let the heat rise over her wet clothes. On these kinds of evenings in Britain, Father would always throw an extra log on the fire. As they all worked on carving or weaving projects by the firelight, she and Marki would take turns trying to scare Isobel with chilling tales of wicked faeries and ghastly creatures that traveled about on stormy nights. The only reason she resided in this friendless city where she couldn’t open her mouth without bringing down everyone’s mockery and her husband’s wrath was because of Aquilus.

  The curtain swished behind her. A heavy footstep sounded on the tile. “Ness.”

  She half turned.

  Aquilus moved in front of the table and planted his hands firmly on the wood. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You can’t act like that in public.”

  Staring deeper into the flames, she rubbed her hands over the warmth. She was a free woman; she’d act as she wished, in public or otherwise. “Act like what?”

  “Like a barbaric fool.”

  Flames hotter than any fire fanned inside her. She kicked her soggy sandals off. “Boadicea’s history. Even a Roman can’t rewrite facts.”

  His face hardened. “That’s another thing, your attitude toward Rome. Who do you think you are? Boadicea?”

  She whipped away from the fire. “She’s one of my heroes.” Who did he think he was insulting her people?

  With a groan, he leaned back against the table, hands spread. “Admire whom you will, but you can’t speak that way to a consul.”

  “I can if I wish to.” She bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have antagonized Aquilus’ friends, still, the deference he paid such men defied logic. Romans treated men of high position like some sort of deities. Consuls and senators were only men. They ate, slept, and loved like any other men. Cut them, they bleed.

  “No, you cannot.” Red rose across Aquilus’ face.

  So even a Stoic had a temper—well used to. It was halfway to Persia by now. “The consul is an idiot.”

  “That’s irrelevant. I wanted his support for my Germanian trade plan, and you shattered that idea.” He kept his voice mostly level, but he used the tone he employed with his soldiers.

  She squirmed. The consul had stomped away in a huff as a result of her words. The way Aquilus had insulted her people she didn’t feel like expressing regret, but she forced the words from her mouth. “I’m sorry I damaged your political alliances. In the future, I will take the rank and political influence of potential listeners into consideration when speaking the truth.”

  “Into consideration? You’re not to speak like that ever. I won’t have you ruining my career.” He breathed more heavily, outrage written across his rain-soaked brow no matter how hard he tried to control it.

  She’d done nothing to deserve that display of anger. “You think I’m here to further your political plans?”

  “Were that my intention in choosing a wife, I wouldn’t have married you.”

  She pressed her lips together. True enough, but it hurt when he said it like that. Did he regret the ‘foolishness’ of marrying a ‘destitute’ Celt?

  “I do, however, expect you to refrain from alienating political contacts.”

  Her face hardened. Rome hated her without reason. No amount of coaxing from her would change that.

  He looped his fingers in his belt even as he held that arrogant, leaning back posture. “Not to mention that Emperor Domitian is proving capricious these days, so offending the great men of Rome can have serious consequences.”

  She stared at him. Aquilus switched emotions as unexpectedly as moves in a fist fight. Did he mean that executed Senator the women had mentioned at Bernice’s house? The day the Emperor executed Romans for their wives’ conversation would be a bloodbath indeed. “The people here are spiteful.”

  Aquilus glowered as if this was another diatribe of hers rather than the factual truth. “They might be more pleasant if you weren’t launching insults at them.”

  Bernice’s attitude was not her fault. “You weren’t there when the women talked.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow, breaking the mask of his face. “A circumstance for which I’m profoundly grateful.”

  She crossed her arms. “The men’s talk proved better?”

  “It generally is.” Except for his mouth, he remained motionless, a cold statue.

  She pulled her eyebrows down. “Maybe in Rome. The women here are sadistic.”

  “I don’t care. In public, you will treat them with decorum.” For one moment, his stoic mask parted and she caught a flash of anger.

  He dared to order her? She was the one who should be fuming in self-righteous offense in this shadowy room while the rain poured down in the courtyard outside. Why hadn’t he defended her, defended Britain? No, he’d called her a barbarian instead. “Why in public? Because you have an idolatrous need to impress others?”

  His foot hit the leg of the table, sending it a full pace back as he came to his feet. “Horace,” he muttered and relaxed his body, but his voice froze air. “No. Because your public talk could ruin my career. Though I’m about done with your private ranting too.”

  Sinking back against the heat of the fireplace, she touched her bare toe to the knee-high statue of an eagle and a raven locked in combat. Aquilus had spoken the truth that day at the village green when he said she had the temper of Poseidon. However unwittingly, she’d alienated a man Aquilus had wished to impress. She should be more understanding about his frustration.

  With a sigh, she let breath slide from her lungs. She moved toward the table and took his stiff hand in hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that. I’m just out of sorts waiting for your transfer back to Britannia. Will you forgive me?”

  “Transfer to Britannia?” He narrowed his eyes and his shoulders still had an angry set to them
.

  “Yes. Has enough time passed that you can put in your request?” Stepping in front of him, she touched his other arm and looked into his dark eyes. She hadn’t seen her family again after the wedding like she’d promised. They’d left for Rome too soon. How many more months until she could return to her people?

  Rather than respond to her touch, he glared at the fire’s flames. “Why would I want a transfer to Britannia?”

  She dropped her hand from his. “Because it’s home.”

  “It’s a political dead-end. Now Egypt or the eastern provinces, one can earn advancements there.” Though resentment still tinged his voice, he looked at her now. The flames made shadows on the angles of his face, his Mediterranean skin darker yet by firelight.

  “You promised when we married that we’d live in Camulodunum.” Her voice rose.

  “Until I transferred.” He yanked at the clasp of his cloak. The wet fabric dripped on the tile as he jerked it off.

  “No, you said we’d live there forever.” Her voice caught. When she closed her eyes, she could ignore the cold tiles and marble statues and let the sound of drumming rain carry her back to Britain and the vivid greens of lush fields and home. She had to live there again, see her family, start her sheep farm.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.” Her heart thundered as loud as the storm outside. She dug her fingers into the slick window sill. He couldn’t be saying what she heard him saying.

  “Why would I promise to ruin my career for you?” In a pace, he crossed to the mantle and threw his wet cloak over the hook there.

  “Because you love me.” Her hand trembled. All this time she’d assumed they’d return to Britain swiftly and he’d never intended that. How had she so blinded herself? He spoke incessantly of Germania and Roman politics. Even his own household was an afterthought to him. Of course, he’d intended to pursue his career rather than honor his promise.