Free Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 by Mia Marlowe Page B

Lector Epiphanes as his mathematics and polemics tutor, yes?”
    “Indeed,” Onesimus said. “I had a full report from Epiphanes. Do be aware that Lector is learned enough, but the man is quite voluble after only a bowl or two of Acacian wine. According to Lector Epiphanes, the lad is as quick with his studies as he is with his riding.”
    “Very well. We'll let him stay with his current tutor for at least another year, unless Lector's drinking becomes a problem.” Damian fastened his gaze on the report spread before him on the polished ebony desk. If a flicker of emotion showed in his eyes, he didn't want Onesimus to mark it. “What of the woman?”
    “The boy's mother is set upon by a number of suitors, but she seems content to remain a widow. She dotes on her son so, another man would be hard pressed to slip into her life, let alone her bed, though there are those who still try.”
    “Who?”
    “Marcus Nobelissimus, the thematic governor, for one,” Onesimus said. “Your largess has made the lady a woman of property. A steady stream of income is always of interest to an ambitious politician.”
    “Perhaps I shall see that this Nobelissimus finds himself removed to Gaul when the time comes for his next appointment,” Damian mused. “She doesn't encourage him?”
    “The lady is the soul of propriety.”
    Damian smiled. He remembered a time when Calysta was anything but proper. There’d been one balmy night when she slipped out of her father's villa and met him in the ruins of the temple of Eros. Together they offered a fitting sacrifice to the defunct god of lust on that soft summer evening. If he let himself, he could still taste the sweet saltiness of her skin.
    “She's been well then? How did she appear to you?” Damian reminded himself that the image he carried of her was veiled by time's shroud.
    “There are a few silver strands in her dark hair, but her waist is still slender as a girl's. The years have been kind to the lady.” Onesimus wrung his hands before him in a habitual gesture of nervousness. “And though you don't ever ask, I feel I should tell you the boy is more like you with each passing year.”
    Damian studied his steepled fingers for a moment, unsure how to catalog what he was feeling. Pride? Certainly, but mingled with a wave of uneasiness as well. All fathers long to see their likeness stamped on the faces of their offspring, and yet beyond providing lavishly, if anonymously, for the boy, Damian had done little to be a father to him.
    Because he was unable to be a husband to the lad's mother.
    “If I may be so bold as to suggest, Excellency,” Onesimus said, “perhaps you'd do well to reveal yourself to your family. I'm sure your lady wonders at the largess that comes each year. Without constant tending, even the most sagacious of investments dry up after a time. The lady is no fool. She must suspect you live yet.”
    Damian rose and gave his back to his informer, trying to school his features into passivity and knowing he failed miserably. “You forget yourself, Onesimus. I ask only for your observations, not your counsel.” He waved his servant away. “I will hear no more on the subject. Rest yourself for a week and then resume your duties. Unless there are unexpected developments, I will look for your next report three months hence. You are excused.”
    Damian didn't turn around at the rough slap of leather on the Corinthian marble of the study floor as Onesimus took his leave. His informer's reports were always gut-wrenching, but he demanded them with each turn of the seasons, torturing himself with scraps of his family's life, knowing he could allow himself nothing more.
    He crumpled the spy's report into a ball. Calysta and his son were safe. They were both healthy and well provided for. It should be enough.
    It never could be.
    Damian poured himself a glass of the Etruscan vintage from the decanter on his desk and swirled the amber liquid for a moment, sending its