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

by Anne Garboczi

  “I’m not working in Britannia.”

  “Why? Because of political promotions? Is that all you care about?”

  “Of course not. God’s will is higher, above all.”

  “What about my wishes? Will you transfer to Britannia for me?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t love me.” Before she could stop them, the words whipped out of her mouth to mix with the blowing rain and thunderclaps. Blood pulsed through her veins. They had to go home.

  He clenched his hands around the lip of the table. “I do love you, Ness. Never doubt it.”

  He did not like to have his love questioned? Then why wouldn’t he even consider what she wanted? After all, he’d been the one that wanted a Celtic wife and he’d promised they’d live in Camulodunum. Promised. Her throat constricted, choking her. “You travel the Empire for your politics. I wish you valued our marriage as much.”

  “I do.”

  “In truth?” She let her voice suggest more than skepticism.

  Frustration flashed across his face. “You don’t see me allowing my political contacts to harangue me for half an hour.”

  Choice Celtic phrases came to mind, but she pressed her fingers together until her knuckles went white to not say them. She had to return to Britain, and since when did he consider talking to her so unpleasant?

  “Which begs my first point. Stop insulting consuls.”

  Raising her eyelashes high, she stared right at him and moved her shoulders in a shrug. “Rejoice that it wasn’t a governor.”

  His breathing came harder. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “You’re going to ruin my political career.” The red rose on his face, but then he muttered something that sounded like Horace and forced his hands flat on the table.

  Who was this wretched Horace? “Why do you have to serve the Roman state?” An honest question, though she doubted he’d take it that way.

  “It’s my work,” he said.

  “I’m your wife.”

  “Exactly, which is why you will stop subverting my service to the Empire.”

  No, that was why he should at least consider going to Britain for her. He cared far more for his politics than her, no matter what he said. Bitterness tinged her voice as she jabbed her foot against the statue of the eagle and a raven locked in combat. “It’s not service. You just want the fame of a consulship.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Liar.” She didn’t even wish that word back in her mouth. Maybe she should have. She’d managed to endure this life for so many months by holding on to the hope that they’d soon return to Britain. How would she survive Rome now?

  “Don’t you ever call me a liar! I’ve never lied in my life.” His knuckles were white, his eyes dark as night.

  She snorted. “More edicts on what I can and cannot say?”

  “Yes,” he said loudly.

  “Mayhap if you could persuade me I was wrong, I’d actually listen to your edicts.” Why couldn’t he see the allure of starlit evenings together in Britain, lost in each other’s eyes as the sheep baaed from the pastures behind their house?

  “Ecce, as if you listen to reason.”

  Like a stinging slap across her face, his words burned her. Nothing she did ever pleased him.

  The red wrapped around Aquilus’ square jawbone had risen and now crept up to his forehead. “I don’t know why I’m wasting time on this. Next time I tell you to drop a discussion, you drop it. Behold, conversation over.”

  She stiffened her shoulders. “I’m not playing by your rules.” They had to return to Britain. Her head throbbed as her eyes ached from the tears she held in.

  “I’d wager against that.” He looked every handbreadth the Roman from the place where his tunic draped over rigid shoulders, to the leather belt where a sword would have hung if he had been in the field, to his austere sandals.

  He should have been born with armor because he certainly treated every decision as a martial one.

  “Don’t stake too much coin on a bet you’ll lose.” She walked toward the door. As she left, her foot dragged. She almost twisted her ankle over that marble statue of an eagle and a raven. With a hop, she kept moving.

  “You broke the beak off the Paterculi crest,” Aquilus called after her.

  A rush candle lit the empty tablinum. Ness shifted the wax tablet that lay on the table in front of her. The shadows loomed even darker in the silence, made larger than life by the moonlight that shone through the broad window and reflected off the cedar door to their room. No solace awaited her there. Yesterday, Aquilus left for Germania—again. He’d mentioned a month-long assignment Cassius had found for him.

  She held the stylus above the wax. Though she’d received no responses, tonight she’d write another letter home. What to say? If only she could write the truth.

  I’m lonely, ill, and miserable. This week, I lost my temper with my husband and said things I regret because he refuses to entertain any talk of a transfer to Britain.

  Refused? How could Aquilus refuse? He’d promised her they’d live in Camulodunum. Promised. She jabbed the stylus into the wax. With a hacking sob, she dropped the metal instrument. Her tears overflowed into the indentations in the wax.

  Grinding her fists into her eyes, she shoved away the tears. As soon as Aquilus arrived home, she’d insist he transfer back to Britain.

  Chapter 6

  Tears streaked Ness’ face. She tilted her chin toward the heavens where the clear blue sky at least bore no taint from the smell of Rome. “You created oceans, God, called trees into being. Can’t you please make Aquilus want to return to Britain?”

  No answer.

  Her stola swished around her legs as she paced the portico edging the garden. Her gaze strayed to the marble pillars near the doorway. She clenched the wax tablet in her hands. For the hundredth time, she read the words Aquilus had written: today, he’d return.

  One month in Germania had turned into three. Three months alone in Rome. The worst three months of her life.

  Why had he even married her? All he did was leave, and she’d been sick too. She’d gone through dozens of water jars cleaning up her retching.

  Heat surrounded her, causing even the air to blur in the glare of the Italian sun. She stepped further under the portico’s shade and glanced down at the bump that even a heavy stola scarcely hid. If she’d had any experience, she probably would have known five months ago, but she’d only realized it the week after Aquilus left.

  Peering through a crack in the garden gate, she glimpsed the edge of a passing cart. The constant rumble of foot traffic penetrated the courtyard.

  Children should grow up in the fields and meadows, not Rome. She wanted this child to experience using the plow in spring and the scythe in autumn, not the reek of city filth.

  The smell of waste blew through the gate. She clenched her hand over her mouth, willing what little food she’d eaten to stay down.

  Who would be with her when this child came and bring loving arms and happy smiles to let the babe know he was cherished? Aquilus never came home. The housekeeper cared worth chaff. Would Mother and Father ever meet her child?

  Sandals clapped against tile. She spun around.

  Aquilus stood at the courtyard entrance, his hands full of tablets, his tunic sweat-stained.

  Happiness soared through her, then anger. Why hadn’t he returned months ago? She almost ran to him, but her aching muscles protested. Gaze on the face she’d longed for every day of these three months, she fingered the tablet in her hands.

  The greaves on his legs reflected the sun as he moved swiftly forward.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, voice stagnant as the suffocating summer air.

  “I do too.” He smiled at her. Smiled at her as if all was well. A man doesn’t fight with his wife, leave for three months, and then have all be well when he returns.

  She tightened her fingers on the wax. “I’m carrying your child.”

/>   He moved one eyebrow up. “What?”

  So much for imagining a perfect moment when she and Aquilus would share the joy of a child together. Instead of taking his hand and leading him to the Tiber the moment she discovered the news, she’d had to wait three months only to spill the information amidst the stench of Roman streets that wafted over the high garden wall.

  Rather than feeling some special bond with him because of the daughter they’d created together, she still resented him leaving for three months. She dug her bare toe into the raised brick garden wall. Inside the garden, all her plants had withered from the never-ending heat. “You’re a father.”

  His face lit with excitement. “That’s marvelous.” Sliding his arm around her, he drew her next to him. He touched his gaze to her lips and moved his mouth toward her.

  She let her lips just barely brush his, then drew back.

  Rather than let go, he settled his arm around her waist. With his other hand, he touched the bulge where a child grew. “Our babe will be beautiful, like you.” Brushing his hand across her cheek, he tangled his fingers in her hair and twisted a strand of it around his finger. “Mayhap the babe will have the sunlight in its hair.” His eyes took on a faraway look as his voice grew animated. “I want to show him Germania and the garrisons along the Moesian border. If the Germanian frontier is still as volatile when he becomes a man as it is now, he should secure his first tribune post there.”

  She stiffened in his embrace. Now their daughter had become a boy? Even if they did have a son, what if he wished to farm or send merchant ships to far-off lands rather than become a soldier? “You should have come home.”

  Surprise flashed across the angles of his face. He glanced into her eyes. “Are you angry with me?”

  Was it so inconceivable that a woman with child would dislike dwelling in a place where all hated her? She’d had to endure it all alone, sick and without her husband for three entire months. “Yes.”

  He coughed. “Have you read Horace, the Roman poet of a century ago?”

  Another wave of nausea washed over her. As she struggled to swallow down the bile, she focused on the songbird that flitted in and out of the trees in the garden.

  “One of his more famous quotes is ‘anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you.’”

  So, that’s who Horace was.

  He looked out the window of the tablinum. “I own Horace’s works. You should read them.”

  Wait, was he making this her fault? “I’m not one of your legionaries. I don’t need a battle plan, I need….” Well, him, actually. This babe needed him too.

  “You do rage at the slightest provocation.”

  Slightest? A scream rose in her throat. Have him try retching eight times a day, alone, with no relief from the scorching Roman sun and see if he called it slight. “Unlike Stoics, most people feel emotions. They want to be with the one they love.”

  “There’s a difference between feeling something and acting it out. You need to learn that.” His voice had an edge.

  “Need to or what? You’d divorce me?” Like Bernice had said. Tears welled beneath her eyelids. Why had he even married her if everything she did displeased him? In Britain, cool breezes would blow across the land rather than this scorching heat and Mailmura had herbs for retching.

  His eyes widened. “Don’t look like that.” Hand on her waist, he drew her closer. “I would never divorce you.”

  Though she wanted to, she didn’t shove him away, but her voice, carrying through the heavy air, was bitter. “No, just disregard me. You Romans don’t care about anything but your empire.”

  “Does all you say about Rome have to be hateful?” He said it irritably, as a statement, not a question. “You married me. You’re a Roman matron now.”

  The tears she couldn’t control slid down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away. “Just because you live in a place doesn’t make it home.”

  He grunted as his shoulders showed his evaluation of her reasoning with one upward jerk.

  Did he dismiss her thoughts that easily? She’d retched for months because of him. He could at least listen to her. “I’ve never seen a more rancid place. Dirty streets and dirtier souls striding along them. It’s as if the entire earth collected their scum, dumped it in one place, and named it Rome.”

  “I’ve spent my life working for Rome. I’d appreciate if you’d give it a little respect.” He dropped his arm from her, that arrogant calm of his evaporating underneath the Roman sun.

  “Spent your life, and to what purpose? Roman government is horrendous.” She raised her hand, palm up.

  “Don’t talk about my country that way!” Another string of phrases almost slid out of his mouth, but he caught himself.

  If he swore at her in Latin, she’d swear right back at him in Celtic. “I hate Rome.” She almost yelled it. At the noise, the child inside her kicked.

  Aquilus’ body went taut.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insulted your work.” She let her hand fall as the weariness she hadn’t been able to shake these last few months swept over her. “I just need you to take a position in Britannia and do your empire-serving work there. We have a child now.” If they set sail this month, they could reach Britain in time for Mother and Mailmura to help her through the birth.

  “Not a chance.” The challenge in his voice matched the edge of the short sword at his belt.

  This said by the man who hadn’t held her hand once through the last three months of retching. With one angry motion, she threw the missive he’d written her. The wax tablet cracked against the paving stones. “I wish I’d never married you!”

  For a moment, he glared at the wreckage, then he sighed and turned his gaze to her. “Acceptance begets happiness.”

  She stood up to her full height, which lacked only a few handbreadths of his. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and for a moment she was one in spirit with the Celtic warrior queens. “No.”

  “You married a tribune. What did you expect?”

  “For one thing, I expected you’d be a less rotten husband.”

  He gestured out. “I’ve never done anything wrong. You couldn’t find a more understanding husband in all of Rome.”

  If true, then that was another reason not to marry a Roman. “All you do is leave.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I want to forge better government for the people of this empire.” Those dark eyes knew how to fill with sarcasm just as well as love.

  So, this was his plan for their lives? He’d force her to stay in Rome retching as Bernice hurled insults while he traveled the Empire and didn’t so much as look at his daughter? “It’s like you don’t even care I exist!”

  “Of course, I care.” His tongue cracked the words like a whip.

  “Hypocrite. I don’t see why I even told you we’re having a child. All you care about is your stulte Germanian trade plan.”

  “That’s not true. I love you.”

  Ecce, those words had a different effect when growled through clenched teeth. “No, you don’t. You never did.”

  “I believe I should know whether I love you or not.” He dug his thumbs into his belt, arms out.

  “You’re lying then.” She pressed on her stomach, forcing down the sickness that threatened to swell over her. This child was a girl. Mailmura said women retched more with girls.

  “I never lie.”

  He’d lied to her when he promised they’d live in Camulodunum. Ness drove her foot into a grassy knoll. “You say you’re going to save the Empire from evil influences. You’re just as dissipated as the rest of the Romans. A Nero-like figure.”

  “Nero!” He shouted the name. “That’s so ridiculous I’m not even answering it. I’m a Stoic. We believe in strong minds and strong bodies, not dissipation.”

  “Stoic? Is that what Romans call inferior husbands?” A breeze whipped up, blowing her hair across her face.

  He spread his feet, crossing his arms
above the tablets in his hand. He looked as if he made ready for a fuming lecture such as he might have given rebellious legionaries.

  “I’m done talking with you.” She took a step away.

  He slammed the tablets down on the garden bench. “I had something to tell you.”

  That’s what he always did—said and acted however he pleased and then expected her to apologize. This time, she wasn’t. She deliberately walked past him, let her dress sweep across his legs, and brushed by.

  He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her around. “I said, I have something to tell you.”

  Hot blood rushed to her face. She ripped her arm up and struck her forearm against his cheekbones. “Don’t you ever touch me like that.”

  Stepping back, she struggled to catch her heaving breath. She glanced at the bruise already forming on her upper arm. “Now see what you’ve done.”

  “A bruise? As if that’s the first one I’ve seen.” He wiped at the blood dripping from his own nose. He had let the anger go and summoned a calmer mood, but he sounded incredibly unimpressed with her.

  She held her chin high. “You left a mark. That’s cause enough for divorce by Celtic law.”

  “Celts are idiots then.”

  She prodded the bruise. “No, Celtic men are intelligent enough not to anger their wives.”

  “That explains why Celtic men were such weaklings that we conquered them all.”

  She stared at him. She moved her bare foot back ever so slightly.

  “What I was trying to tell you,” his voice slammed the words out as hard as if he was disciplining a legionary. His arms were tense from the solid bulk of his upper arm to his hands, which she’d often seen sign parchment into absolute law.

  Had she ever seen him give in to anger?

  He continued speaking, “Is that I took a position in Germania superior, hence the two-month delay.”

  She gave herself a shake, swishing her tunica. Her self-respect was stronger than any fear. She moved toward the atrium’s entrance.

  He stepped in front of her, guarding the exit with his body.

  She moved her gaze from the open neck of his tunic that cut across stalwart chest muscles to the short sword that hung down by firmly planted legs. She didn’t step around.