To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3

by Anne Garboczi Evans

Gwen grunted.

  “Duty?” Livia rolled her gaze to the painted image of Odysseus above. “I follow the rules to avoid a blow from my husband again.” She pulled down her tunica, revealing a bruise across her left breast.

  “Livia!” Gwen lunged toward the couch. “That’s not legal. Have you told your familia?”

  “My brother rolled his eyes and my father told me I shouldn’t have called Drusus a—” Livia dropped her voice as she spoke an insult crude enough to make day laborers blush.

  Aulia gasped. “You called your husband that?”

  “I caught him with a slave girl in our own bedchamber.”

  A sigh passed through Aulia’s pale lips.

  Gwen grimaced as Livia tugged her tunica up. “I’ll fix this for you.” She’d speak with Father about prosecuting Drusus in the law courts. The Celts had many laws regulating such violence. Surely Rome had something. “Now, who’s signing?”

  “Ha, if only the magistrates cared as much about justice as you think they do.” Livia pushed her wool project and daughter off her lap. “But I’ll sign.”

  “Me too,” Claudia said. “I don’t want to marry that old man. I’m only thirteen.”

  “Aulia?” Gwen glanced at the girl.

  “No, thank you.” Aulia tightened the loom’s strands. “Anyone heard interesting news?”

  One stitch accomplished, Claudia dropped her embroidery. “Did you hear the gossip about Senator Sulla’s wife? A graffiti image in the forum said she slept with a slave.”

  “Don’t speak lunacy.” Livia wiped sticky dribbles off her daughter’s chin. “That’s a political insult designed to halt Senator Sulla’s rise to power. As if any patrician woman would actually do that.”

  Aulia nodded. “Agreed. A woman who does that not only loses her citizenship and inheritance rights, the master of the slave can legally enslave her too for the infamia of what she did.”

  Gwen glowered at her embroidery thread. “Now if only patrician men got sold into slavery for bedding with slaves.”

  Claudia flipped her hands over, the sunlight reflecting off her white palms. “Gwen, you’re so….”

  Livia slanted painted eyebrows. “Harebrained?”

  Aulia patted Gwen’s shoulder. “Gwen-like. How is your brother?”

  Gwen sighed. “I still don’t know what you see in Wryn.”

  “Aren’t you betrothed again, Aulia, after that Mesopotamia legate disposed of you to take his slave as concubine?” Livia shifted on the couch, moving her belly.

  “The man’s quite ill.” Aulia threw the shuttle.

  Livia guffawed. “You’re hoping he’ll die?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Aulia blushed scarlet.

  “My brother’s not yet twenty-one, scarcely marrying age for men.” Gwen held the parchment taut while Claudia signed.

  “All of Rome’s already swooning over him.” Claudia nibbled the top of the pen. “I’d take him.”

  Gwen groaned. “Why?”

  “He’s so handsome.”

  “And noble and kind,” Aulia said.

  Pressing one hand across her heart, Claudia sighed. “And breathtaking in armor.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes.

  “It’s not as if you don’t receive as much attention, Gwen.” Livia straightened her daughter’s tunica. “How many marriage offers did you receive this week?”

  “Five.”

  Claudia flopped back. “Paterculi connections.” Jealousy gleamed in her eyes.

  What good were Paterculi connections if Marcellus wouldn’t ask for her? Gwen fidgeted with the cushion fringe. Marcellus had twelve more days.

  “Will you mention me to your brother sometime?” Aulia turned pale eyes to Gwen.

  “I don’t know that it’ll do any good.” Gwen rolled the parchment tight. “I’ll try, though.”

  “Is it true your father’s giving you a choice, Gwen?” Claudia leaned back on her hands.

  Gwen nodded. About marriage, not so much about kissing. Only one more day until First Day and that conversation Father intended to have with John.

  “Oh, you are favored by the gods.” Claudia clasped her hands together. “If I could choose, I’d never marry this old man.”

  “Cease whining, Claudia.” Livia shoved herself upright. “All fathers choose their daughters’ betrothed based on political connections. Count yourself fortunate you’re not marrying a violent man.”

  Gwen stuffed her petition inside her tunica. Speaking of violent men, she needed to prosecute Drusus.

  At the entrance to the Paterculi villa, Gwen’s guards parted company with her to join the others who constantly patrolled the house.

  A young woman in torn clothes extended her emaciated arms. No betrothal ring circled her finger. “Alms?” A sallow-cheeked baby clung to the woman’s skirts.

  “Here.” Gwen handed her a coin. Kneeling, she tugged dates from her pocket and extended them to the baby.

  Pale eyes widening, the child bit its two front teeth into the date. Sticky juice dribbled down the baby’s chin. Gwen looked up. “Do you have any skills? I may be able to find you work.”

  The woman’s eyes lighted. “Not many, but I’m a hard worker.”

  Perhaps the woman could work as a maid for one of the patricians if she could find an opening. Gwen stood. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Here.” Lifting her skirt, Gwen tugged her knife from her leg sheath. She pressed it into the woman’s hands. “The streets aren’t safe for a woman alone.”

  Turning, Gwen rushed to the tablinum. She shoved the curtain open.

  Father sat at the table, deep into a list of garrison figures. According to Mother, he might get a consulship this year.

  “Father, we have to do something.” Gwen strode up. “Livia’s husband beats her.”

  Pain crossed Father’s face. “What will her father do?”

  “Nothing. At all. I want to help her hire a lawyer.”

  “No court of law will take that case, Gwen.”

  “Why?” Gwen rested both hands on Father’s tablets and leaned on the table. “It’s not legal to beat your wife.”

  “It’s not illegal either. Yes, it’s considered low-class, but you won’t find a magistrate willing to intervene between a man and his wife.”

  Her sandal slid on the tile as she stepped back. That’s what Livia had said, yet surely not. “That can’t be true.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gwen.” Father lay his hand over hers, sorrow in his eyes.

  With a swish, the curtain opened. “The Dacian consul’s definitely attending tonight, right, Father?” Wryn stood in the doorway.

  Father nodded.

  “I want to gain his support for a praetor appointment. As tribune, I do nothing but drill men in the same martial exercises they’ve done a thousand times before.”

  “That won’t be easy, son.” Father furrowed his brow. “Many serve five years as tribune before even considering an illustrious political post such as praetor.”

  “I know, but I can at least start building connections now. Also,” he touched his weaponless belt, “I can’t find my gladius.”

  Nor would he. Gwen advanced. “Is John going to the dinner with the consul tonight?”

  Wryn grinned. “You like him.”

  “No, I don’t.” Gwen slid her arms across her chest. “But is he?”

  “No, he couldn’t secure an invitation. I tried to help him, but men of higher rank filled all the seats. He’s going to the Tellnus event instead.” Wryn shoved a tablet at Father. “My talking points for the consul.”

  The Tellnus event, which Marcellus would attend. Perhaps if she went there, she could talk John into covering for her with Father before tomorrow’s interrogation. “I want to go to the Tellnus event.”

  “Oh, you don’t like John at all.” Wryn slanted one teasing eyebrow.

  “All of us are going to hear the consul’s speech, Gwen.” Father took Wr
yn’s tablet. “After last year’s assassination attempt, I don’t want you attending even dinner parties alone.”

  “What if Wryn goes with me?”

  Father nodded. “Yes, if he looks out for you.”

  “No.” Wryn pressed his eyebrows down. “I need to meet that consul.”

  “Wryn, please.” Gwen caught his hand. She’d even give Wryn his gladius back.

  “I’ll take her.” John stood in the entranceway, his body pushing back the curtain. He was the same height as Marcellus, and of a similar build, which is why her lie had worked so well—until now.

  “John.” Wryn slapped him on the back. “I was waiting for you. I have that treatise about the Viri’s smuggling you asked for.”

  Wryn shared the information with John also! Gwen frowned.

  Father’s gaze clashed against John’s. “You’ll what?”

  “I mean my familia’s going.” John’s ears turned red. “If Gwen wants to come with us.”

  “Yes.” Gwen nodded, though, in Mother’s Celtic village, she never needed an escort for her comings and goings.

  Father pierced John with his gaze. Then he brought his hard jaw down. “Keep a watch out for her, though. You know the Paterculis have encountered assassination attempts before.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Also, I need to speak with you.” Father directed a severe glance at the man.

  “Later, Father. Let’s go.” She grabbed John’s arm.

  John’s blue eyes widened. His olive skin stretched over a strong-enough face, which the distinctive Grecian hook of his nose lent character to. “Don’t you have to get ready?”

  “I’ll get ready with your sister. Salve, Father.” She yanked John into the atrium.

  Two steps from the gated entrance, Wryn caught them, a parchment in his hand. “Here’s the Viri information.” He handed it to John and swung the gate open.

  As John hung back, gaze running down the parchment, Wryn walked into the bustle of the street.

  Gwen followed him. “Are you walking with us?”

  “Not about to let my little sister wander the streets with men. Besides, Father wouldn’t have let you go with John if someone didn’t accompany you to the Spiros domus.”

  She snorted. John scarcely counted as men. A rumbling cart passed between her and the villa gate. The noise of pedestrians rose loud. “You’re acting surprisingly obliging, brother.”

  “Perchance I want to get you married off so you stop pestering me.”

  She grinned. “Married or not, I’ll always pester you.”

  “I feared that.” Wryn smiled. “Father had a letter from Eric. He and Cara are breaking their journey here next week on their way to Greece.”

  “I want to see Cara.” Gwen beamed. “I bet Lucia’s grown so much we won’t recognize her.”

  “Enjoy yourself at the dinner tonight. Don’t kiss any men.”

  Gwen flaunted her bare shoulders. “I’ll kiss who I want to kiss, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Wryn groaned. “This is why normal families would have married you off four years ago. Perhaps six.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I intend to marry before summer ends.”

  “You do?” a voice that wasn’t her brother’s said.

  Gwen spun.

  John no longer stood inside the villa gate, but a mere pace away.

  Wryn raised an eyebrow, his brown eyes laughing mercilessly at her.

  “Yes, I do.” Standing tall, she glared at Wryn. Marry Marcellus, that is, after he offered for her.

  Chapter 3

  Candles lined the pathway to the Tellnus villa. Colorful fish swam in bowls on the front terrace, and the scent of delicacies wafted through the colonnades.

  Gwen glanced at John. His sister and her husband walked a pace behind. “Thank you for telling Father you’d watch out for assassins.” Though she counted herself more skilled at swordplay than he, despite the fact he was seven years her elder. All through her childhood, she’d begged Father to teach her how to use a sword until he agreed to train her in sword skills just like Eric and Wryn.

  “My pleasure.” John touched his knife.

  The ivory handle gleamed. Had he ever even used the knife? “Do you plan to go into trade like your father?”

  “I want an army position, but it’s harder to make tribune as an equestrian, rather than a Paterculi.” John’s eyes glinted in the moonlight.

  “Army? You know as tribune you have to fight in battles.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. She shouldn’t have spoken such rude words, particularly since she owed her opportunity to come tonight to John. Also, she needed to convince him not to reveal her secrets to Father. “Mea culpa.”

  John grinned. Flicking his knife out, he snapped his wrist. The blade flew a good fifteen paces and sank into a carob sapling.

  She stepped back. “Impressive.”

  John’s sister caught them. “John! We’re at a dinner party.” Grabbing Gwen’s arm, the woman hustled her on while John walked to retrieve the knife.

  Inside the darkened atrium, John’s sister and her husband split right toward the bustle in the triclinium. Gwen hung back. The moonlight reflected off the atrium pool.

  “Gwen.” A voice she’d know among thousands spoke her name, his tongue caressing the word. Marcellus brushed his fingers against her bare arm. “Lovely as the moonlight. I rather think if I’d come half a moment earlier, I’d have seen you walk down that moonbeam.”

  She swiveled into him. Last year, in Britannia, he’d spoken just such words after they spent all day fishing, then watched the moon rise over the forest lake as the smoke from frying fish wafted into the darkness.

  Marcellus caught her hand, tugging her to him. “Come to the gardens with me.”

  She glanced toward the entranceway which John would walk through any moment. She couldn’t risk John telling Father she’d consorted with Caius Marcellus. “I can’t before the dinner. When the speeches begin?”

  “I have to leave before the hour’s out. Come.” Marcellus wrapped both hands around hers. He traced his callused finger over her veins.

  “Can’t, but are you hiring any servants?”

  “No.” Marcellus touched her hair.

  “What about your friends? I met a woman and child today, and they’re starving.”

  A troubled look passed over Marcellus’ visage. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I love you for trying.”

  Such a tender light always lit his eyes whenever she spoke of helping the less fortunate, she could never believe the violent stories about him. Gwen touched his hand. “Love me enough to plan the day you’ll visit my father?”

  “What?”

  Not the answer she hoped for. “To ask for my hand in marriage. I gave you a fortnight two days ago.”

  Footsteps sounded. Gwen jerked a respectable pace and a half from Marcellus. As John walked to her, he directed a curious look to Marcellus.

  Taking Gwen’s hand, John placed it on his arm. “Time to take our places at the dinner.”

  A dissatisfied expression crossed Marcellus’ face.

  She followed John, but as they passed into the blazing lights of the triclinium, she glanced back.

  A girl in blue silk touched Marcellus’ shoulder. Hermina. Marcellus turned toward her and Hermina’s laugh rose through the open roof above. Gwen clenched her fist.

  Oil lamps lit the long hall lined with tables and couches. A servant motioned John to a table by the back. He took the couch the servant indicated, and she stretched herself on the cushions by John. His sister and her husband reclined on the third couch by the table across from them, all bad seats, where they’d have to crane their necks to see the speakers.

  When she attended dinners with her familia, the hosts always seated Paterculis front and center, visible to every prying eye. Last year, Marcellus had slipped her a note as he passed her table, and she’d spilled an entire bowl of dormouse sauce in front of those staring eye
s.

  Gwen shifted on the couch, two handbreadths from John, and her right leg chafed against her left. She felt the cold steel of her leg sheath.

  Behind her, someone coughed. The host, Quaestor Tellnus, stood by the table. “Gwen Paterculi?”

  “Salve, Quaestor.” She inclined her head and took a fish slab off the table. Bland food for a bland night.

  “Our house is honored by your presence. Please move up to a better seat.” Quaestor Tellnus gestured to the forward-facing couches, the best seats. A couch by Senator Sulla had one empty spot, but not two.

  She’d not so rudely abandon John. “Thank you, sir, but I’m quite contented here.” Gwen cut the fish.

  “Your dining partner….” Quaestor Tellnus directed a curious gaze at John.

  “John Spiros.” She bit into the fish.

  “Is welcome too, of course.”

  She glanced toward the front. Bodies filled every couch. She’d not force those of lesser rank to move simply because she was a Paterculi. “My gratitude, but there’s no need, sir.” She dipped her finger into the dipping bowl, but the fish slime remained. How long until this dinner ended and she could talk to John about what she needed to and go home? If only Marcellus didn’t have to leave so early.

  “It’s rude to say ‘no’ to a host.” John grabbed her hand and stood.

  The host led them through couches to the front, couches the host would make someone move from on her account. Gwen’s face heated in embarrassment, but John still held her hand, and the host kept moving.

  Quaestor Tellnus’ beady eyes darted left and right as he muttered, “Senator there, can’t make him move. Praetor there, not him. Only an equestrian, but too rich to offend.” His gaze landed on a table. The broad couch at the head of the table held only one occupant.

  Like a bolt of lightning, that occupant’s gaze connected with Gwen.

  “Caius Marcellus, you move,” the Quaestor said.

  The lightning seared through her veins as Marcellus ran his green-eyed gaze over her. She knotted her hands around each other. “I don’t wish to make him move.” Oh, what she’d give to recline next to him.

  “Anything for the lady.” Standing, Marcellus took her hand and brought it to his lips.