To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Anything to include asking for her hand in marriage? “Twelve days left,” she whispered, so close to him now. Her hand tingled from where his mouth had touched it, and he hadn’t released her hand.

  “You put the table flowers here to shame, for no rose or amaranth could compare to you,” Marcellus said, louder than a whisper. He slipped something into her hand.

  “He’s such a lecher.” John groaned and lay on the abandoned couch.

  “He’s not—” Gwen started, but Marcellus dropped her hand and turned.

  “What?” John dug his knife into a chicken leg.

  “Nothing.” Gwen stretched herself next to John. Holding her hand in the shadow of her tunica, she uncurled her fingers. A carved poppy blossom looked up at her, the scent of pine resin still clinging to the wood. She smiled.

  The dinner dragged on. At the consul’s dinner, the speakers would have talked of the latest political developments. This less illustrious dinner had a poetry recitation. A slave stood and unfurled a scroll. “Lucretia was—”

  Lucretia’s tale? No, she was not listening to that wretched story where all the women blamed themselves for men’s transgressions.

  “Will you come to the gardens with me, John?” She twisted and her shoulder touched his chest. Marcellus would have already left, and she had to speak with John privately and convince him to keep her secret. She couldn’t have Father learn of Marcellus yet.

  “Of course.” John stood and reached for her hand. He led the way between crowded couches to the dark stone courtyard.

  Hyssop lent a pleasant smell to the space, crocus buds closing in the night air. She walked a few paces farther to where a row of hedges blocked their voices from those inside. “Could you keep a secret for me, John?”

  “A secret from whom?” John smiled.

  “My father.”

  John shook his head. “I would like to be in your father’s good graces.”

  Why? Gwen tapped the hedge. Now that they stood in a garden, she could just kiss him. Then when Father interrogated John tomorrow about a garden kiss, he’d think Father meant now.

  She dug the toe of her sandal into the grass and lifted her gaze to John’s. His dark eyes had an intense look. Wryn said John wanted her. If so, she was wicked to lead him on.

  Still, one chaste kiss? Scarcely different than what a sister would give a brother. With his utterly uninspiring manner, John seemed like a brother, only more polite and less annoying.

  She touched his hand. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

  “Count myself very fortunate,” John grinned, “and kiss you back.”

  She reached up and touched her lips to his.

  He circled his arm behind her shoulders as he leaned into the kiss, his mouth over hers. Not how a brother would respond.

  With a cough, she broke the kiss.

  John brushed his fingers across her hand. “You kiss as passionately as you talk politics.”

  “Yes, well, let’s talk politics then if it’s all the same to you.” She turned to the lighted rooms and scrubbed at her lips. Good thing Marcellus had already left.

  At least her secret would stay safe now.

  A Few Moments Before

  Hand on the overgrown hedge, Marcellus glared into the gardens where Gwen walked with this John. He must be a family friend since none of Gwen’s familia had accompanied her tonight.

  The girl in a blue silk tunica, Hermina or some name like that, moved toward him—again. She ran her fingers down his arm. “You look morose tonight, Marcellus.”

  He grunted.

  The girl, who had flirted with him last dinner party and this one, glided in front of him. She grazed her hand against his jaw.

  He should say something. He did, after all, have a reputation to keep up, but he didn’t have the heart for it. Not tonight.

  Stretching on tiptoe, Hermina pressed her lips to his.

  Caius Marcellus would have kissed her back, but he had no desire to. Still, he couldn’t let anyone know the difference between him and Caius. Touching the girl’s shoulders with the back of his hand, Marcellus touched his lips to hers and then shoved her away.

  He swung his gaze to the gardens. Gwen still stood by John, that wretched man a handbreadth from her.

  Touching John’s hand, Gwen leaned up and kissed him. Kissed!

  Marcellus squeezed his knife.

  John came from a wealthy merchant familia. He had the pedigree to ask for Gwen. Unlike him. Caius Marcellus could have married her, but never him.

  Marcellus kicked a rock, flinging it up across hedges. Ludicrous. He didn’t even want Gwen. He needed to start the plan and fulfill twenty-three years of thirsting for revenge.

  What if he relinquished revenge and asked Consul Julius Semproni if he could settle on the Marcellus’ estates for good? Live as Caius Marcellus the rest of his life? Grow old in a vineyard with Gwen, have children, a familia for once?

  Ha. With the number of suitors vying for Gwen’s hand, her father would never choose even Caius Marcellus. Patricians selected their daughters’ husband based not on virtue or love, but political connections. While the Marcellus estates represented wealth untold to him, they could never compare to the estates of the wealthiest patricians like the Paterculis.

  The last man he wanted to see jogged Marcellus’ elbow. It was Fabius Agricola, the only man here who knew his secret.

  Marcellus stiffened.

  Fabius struck his hand across Marcellus’ face. “Such as you will not touch patrician women.”

  Rage boiled inside him like every other time Fabius’ heavy-handed blows had bruised his flesh or those he loved. Marcellus clenched his knife, but Fabius knew his true identity.

  “The consul expected you at his house a half-hour ago.”

  Marcellus forced his fists to unclench. Time enough to make Fabius pay for the past after he completed the consul’s task. “You’re late too.”

  “I don’t owe my lifeblood to the benevolence of better men.” Fabius swelled his chest out and glanced to the gardens. “Is that Gwen Paterculi?”

  “How would I know?” Marcellus spun on his heel.

  “She and her twenty-five million sestertii dowry are mine.”

  “Only if her father allows it.” Though he hated John, the man seemed good-hearted. Unlike the wretch Fabius, who had no respect for women, slave or free, John would make Gwen happy.

  “He’ll say yes. I have a plan. After I call in a few favors, I’ll have a praetor appointment to offer her brother.”

  Then Fabius would get Gwen because that’s what patrician fathers always did, sold off their daughters for political influence. Rage increased Marcellus’ pulse, pounding against his skin.

  No time to glare, no time to clench fists or kick marble. Not now. He’d lose his freedom, or his life if he let his guard down now, but he was drinking an entire amphora of wine tonight. Perhaps three.

  Fabius tightened his hand on a marble pillar. “That lowly equestrian has no right to walk with her in the gardens.”

  “Gwen kissed him too.”

  Glaring, Fabius ground his hand into his dagger.

  Marcellus almost smiled.

  Marcellus took a shallow breath. Consul Julius Semproni and Fabius Agricola sat at the front of the dimly-lit room.

  Hands by his side, Marcellus stood in the center of the room as their gazes bore into him, same as a slave auction.

  “What have you discovered about the Viri since last we spoke?” The consul rested a saggy hand on the chair arm. Folds of flesh fell from his tunic.

  “Here’s the ship log.” Marcellus tossed the parchment.

  Fabius snatched it out of the air. “The identity of their leader, the Shadow Man?”

  “I’m still working on it.” Marcellus kept his gaze lowered, not meeting the masters’ eyes, just like the last twenty-three years of servitude.

  “Work faster.” Fabius leaned back in his chair, heavy sandals kicked up on an acacia bench inlaid wi
th silver.

  Unlike the first twenty years of his life, now his masters needed him. While forcing him to risk his life spying against the Viri smuggling ring, they’d given him free rein to play the patrician, Caius Marcellus. “Why?” Marcellus spread his shoulders as if he too had been born free. “What reward do I have to hope for?”

  “Your freedom.” Consul Julius rested his head on the wall.

  “I don’t risk my life every hour for my freedom. I could escape any day with the power you’ve given me through the Marcellus name.” He forced his voice to sound confident.

  Anger flooded Fabius’ face. “I’ll hunt you down and see you crucified if you ever run.”

  Consul Julius waved a dismissive hand at Fabius. “I’ll give you the Marcellus estates.”

  Marcellus’ breath caught. No patrician in all Rome, except the men in this room, knew that he was a slave. Though no slave or freedman was allowed to touch the granddaughter of a senator, if he continued to deceive Rome, no magistrate could enforce that law. With the estates, he could remain Caius Marcellus, the patrician, the rest of his life. He could marry Gwen.

  As Caius Marcellus, he’d have to give up his revenge. A patrician wouldn’t lead the plan he contrived. He’d never abandon revenge. “I don’t want the estates. I want coin.” Lots of it. Enough to launch his plan.

  “Very well.” Consul Julius rested both flabby hands on the chair arms. “Will ten thousand sestertii suffice?”

  “A million,” Marcellus said.

  The consul pursed weathered lips, stretching the bags underneath his chin. “Very well. When you bring this Shadow Man to justice, you shall have a million.”

  “I could slit his throat for you.” Difficult with all the Shadow Man’s guards, but not impossible. Not if he brought his rabble.

  “No.” Consul Julius slammed his fist against the chair arm, muscles stronger than he’d expected from the paunchy man. “I want to know his true identity and try him in the court of law, get all the glory we deserve.”

  Since the man could order his death at any time, Marcellus refrained from rolling his eyes.

  “What’s this I hear about you with a patrician woman?” Consul Julius tightened his eyes, bringing in his flaps of skin.

  Gwen? Surely, they didn’t know about Gwen? Marcellus’ heart pounded.

  “Hermina Linthicus.” Fabius glared at him. “The one you’ll have a bruise in the shape of my handprint over tomorrow.”

  “Oh, her.” She’d kissed like a flea-bitten dog. He hated patricians. All patricians. Well, there was Gwen.

  Consul Julius tightened his jaw. “Take all the slave girls you want. You will not mix patrician blood with slave.”

  Marcellus slid one eyebrow up. “What about patrician spittle with slave spittle?” Hermina had tasted slobbery.

  “No!” Fabius leaped from his chair. “Or we’ll expose you. Send you back into slavery.”

  “Without me, you’ll never find the Shadow Man.”

  “I’ve no wish to explain to a patrician father why his daughter was impregnated by a slave.” Consul Julius glared at Marcellus.

  “They’d never know unless you told them.”

  An amusing case of unadulterated terror streaked across the consul’s wrinkled face. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Whatever you command.” Marcellus inclined his head in the promise this consul had no means of enforcing. He should avoid Gwen anyway so the Shadow Man would lose interest in killing her.

  Yet, she was Gwen.

  Fabius kicked his chair as the haughty slave they’d given all too much power to disappeared out the doorway. “Why did you proffer him the Marcellus estates? What if he’d taken you up on the offer? We’re not giving a slave a patrician’s life.”

  “Peace, Fabius.” Consul Julius raised his hand. “We want Marcellus to catch the Shadow Man. We have to hold forth some promises to motivate him.”

  “He’s abusing his power. He’s a slave. A slave.” Fabius clapped his hand against the table. “Though all of Rome thinks him a patrician and every patrician daughter swoons over him.”

  “Once the Shadow Man’s caught, we can throw Marcellus back into slavery, and there’s an end to it. Until then, we tolerate his insolence.”

  Fabius groaned. “Very well, but it’s our heads that will roll if influential patrician fathers discover we’ve given a slave the means to seduce a patrician girl.”

  “Then you ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  Chapter 4

  The Tiber roared beneath the Aventine Hills. Ramshackle apartments crammed the space, winding down to the roar of the swollen depths.

  Marcellus feinted left with the staff. The man he fought swung his staff down. Marcellus parried and shoved forward. The man stumbled and fell.

  Marcellus’ rabble, the twenty-odd slaves he’d freed, cheered. Bending, Marcellus extended his hand to the fallen man. “Watch your footing next time, Bruno. One slip and a legionary will stab a knife through you.” Yes, he’d freed them all, yet he couldn’t free himself.

  Bruno clasped his hand and clambered up.

  “Aim for the head,” Marcellus said. “A long staff blow to the temple can kill a man.”

  Sweat stained each man’s tunic as the sun rose to its zenith.

  “We need a more private place to train,” the newest recruit said. The seared brand on his cheek marked him as one who slavery had not agreed with. “What if you’re recognized?”

  Marcellus glanced at his coarse brown tunic that smelled more familiar than any patrician linen. “In six days, we’ll track down the Shadow Man. Once I discover his identity, I’ll earn my freedom and a million sestertii. Then we can start to train for the slave revolt in earnest.”

  The men nodded. Their hard eyes and scars showed them as the desperate fighters they were.

  “My sister.” Bruno lowered his voice. “Her mistress is threatening to sell her to a brothel. Women don’t survive more than a year at those places.”

  “Who’s your sister’s mistress?” Marcellus wiped sweat-drenched hands on his tunic.

  “Livia Valerii.”

  “How much will the woman ask for her?” Marcellus tugged at the now-sticky bandage on his arm, but he couldn’t take it off.

  “Unfortunately, she’s beautiful, so a thousand denarii perhaps. Fifteen hundred even.”

  Fifteen hundred. Despite the fact Consul Julius ordered him to play the patrician, the man did little more than provide clothes. Also, he’d taken no coin from the Viri for that last smuggling shipment. “I don’t have the money necessary now. When I do, I’ll buy her.”

  The new recruit snorted. “The consul won’t even pay for decent lodgings.” He pointed to the rat-infested apartments where they all lived.

  The noise of colorful hawkers yelling their wares as rough looking men and shabbily dressed women milled around rose from the marketplace nestled between the Aventine Hills just behind the apartments.

  Marcellus groaned. He’d get exposed one of these days when a patrician tried to call at the Marcellus estates and found only slaves. “Even more reason why I need to discover the identity of the Shadow Man. Gather ‘round and I’ll explain the plan.”

  One week, and if all went well, he’d never enter patrician circles again. He would never see Gwen again either. Marcellus clenched his hand. She’d be safer without him, for if word ever got out that she’d kissed a slave, she’d never live down the infamia.

  The noise of the dinner party filled this villa’s wide halls. People circled as servants bore plates of food. Gwen leaned against a secluded pillar. When she married, she’d host dinner parties like this at her own domus, the Marcellus villa. Something warm brushed Gwen’s arm. She jerked her gaze up. Marcellus.

  He flashed four fingers, which meant the fourth row of hedges past the fountain. With a nervous glance back, Gwen looked up at him. “After the speeches?”

  Marcellus nodded.

  “You have three days left.”

&
nbsp; No expression crossed his face.

  Her heart sank. “Three days.” She slid her hand into his. Her fingers fit there, molded against his calluses.

  The first time he held her hand, they stood behind a Rowan tree in a darkened Britannia garden. She complained about the horrid legate Aulia’s father had betrothed her to. Marcellus had said he thought father-arranged betrothals absurd. At his words, she’d thrown her arms around his neck.

  “I could kiss you right now.” He touched her skirt, sculpting it to her leg.

  “In public?” Gwen scoffed. “Even I couldn’t spare you from my father’s vengeance.” At the front of the room, Mother turned. Dropping Marcellus’ hand, Gwen moved to the Paterculi table.

  As Marcellus watched Gwen walk away, his heart sank. He couldn’t ask for her, and soon Fabius would. Get a ‘yes’ too, because that’s how patrician fathers were. Oh, to run a knife through Fabius. After his history with Fabius, though, if he killed him, Consul Julius would assume he was the culprit and crucify him.

  The dinner dragged on. Finally, the decadence of course after course, which already fat patricians barely touched, ended. Thousands died of starvation on the streets of Rome, while here self-important speakers quoted poetry as already-full men picked at delicacies.

  Marcellus sprang from the dinner couch and strode to the darkened patio leading to the gardens.

  A group of men gathered on the marble surface. Marcellus moved near them. Gwen should walk through the colonnades soon.

  “She’s getting old.” A plump youth rattled a glazed jar. Parchments shook inside. “Her father has to say yes to someone.”

  “Eighteen. Ancient,” a man with a wart on his upper lip said.

  A sallow-faced man elbowed the wart man in the ribs. “I heard you got rejected. Pay up.”

  “After such a large bet, too.” The plump man belly-laughed. “Pay up, Antonius.”

  Marcellus lounged back against a pillar, his gaze on the triclinium exit. He had to take care meeting Gwen because the Viri might have spies here, and he couldn’t have the Shadow Man growing any more interested in her death.

  The wart man threw coins into the plump youth’s jar. “I got another betrothed and, unlike the Paterculi daughter, she’ll do my bidding.”