Marcellus stiffened. They bet on Gwen.
“The older the Paterculi daughter gets, the more strong-willed.” A man with hairy eyebrows leaned heavily on a table. “You have to take a wife at twelve or thirteen when they’re still malleable.”
“For a twenty-five million sestertii dowry and Paterculi connections, I can endure a harridan for a wife.” The sallow-faced man laughed.
“Twenty-five million and a face to rival Venus.” The plump man smiled and burped.
“I could tame her.” Shoving into the circle, Fabius dropped a parchment bet into the jar.
White-hot rage flashed inside Marcellus, incinerating discretion. “Ha! And you’re no man if you have the wish to.”
“If we’re talking about proof of manhood, there are so many things I could say on the subject.” Fabius held his gaze.
Marcellus kicked the marble pavement. He couldn’t risk Fabius exposing his slavery. All too soon, Gwen’s father would sell her off to that Cretan.
“What do you say, Marcellus?” The plump youth held up the clay jar. “Care to try your chances at the Paterculi legacy?”
Marcellus glared at the parchments, each one representing a man who wanted Gwen. Each one representing a man who, unlike him, wouldn’t bring infamia on her by merely his touch. “No.”
“A wise choice,” Fabius said, “for such as you.”
“Why do you tolerate his insults?” The hairy-eyebrow man looked to Marcellus.
“Because he’s not worth the words to counter him.” Marcellus ground his fingers into the ridges of the colonnade.
“What about you, John?” The hairy-eyebrow man elbowed him. “Your familia is close to the Paterculis. Some rumor that Legate Paterculi’s insane enough to give his daughter a choice in who she marries.”
Marcellus glanced to the exit. A small boy walked through. No Gwen.
John shifted his feet. “I don’t think it would be respectful to Gwen to bet.”
“A small bet.” Wart man crinkled his eyes at the edges. “Unless you’re so sure you’ll lose?”
John widened his stance. “I’ve got a better chance than any of you.”
“With your paltry connections?” Fabius scoffed. “You’re an equestrian.”
“Gwen’s father will give her a choice,” John held his head high, “and she likes me.”
No, she didn’t. Marcellus kicked a rock, sending it skittering. Gwen had kissed him a thousand more times than this John.
“Is that what the girl told you?” Fabius raised his scornful voice. “Lies of a doting father. He’ll pick the man with the best connections.”
Unfortunately, all too true. Turning, Marcellus slammed his fist against the colonnade so hard pain shot through his wrist.
Gwen’s little brother, Paulus, tugged at her arm.
“Livia had her baby.” Claudia swished her tunica. “A boy. She’s in love with the child.”
Paulus shook Gwen’s shoulder.
“One moment, Claudia.” Gwen focused on the boy.
“Are you really marrying Fabius?” The boy balanced on one foot.
“What?”
“He made a bet that you would.” Paulus switched to the other foot.
Gwen winced. “Fabius Agricola?”
“He, and lots, and lots of other men. I don’t want you to marry. Eric left, and Wryn left, and you’re the only one here with me.”
She hugged her little brother. “Did Marcellus bet?” Three more days. Why did he delay when he told her a thousand times he wished to spend a lifetime with her?
Paulus shook his head. “They asked him to and he said no. He yelled it too.”
“Who’s keeping track of the wagers?”
“That man. He has a big jar with all the bets.” Paulus pointed beyond the pillars.
“Stay here.” Gwen walked to an inlaid table. Jerking out the drawer, she grabbed a writing instrument and parchment. She’d received enough notes from Marcellus in the past two years to forge his signature. “Put this in the man’s jar.” She handed Paulus a folded parchment.
“What’s it say?”
A bet, five hundred denarii that Marcellus would marry her. “Never you mind.”
“Salve.” A man’s voice greeted her.
Fabius Agricola in the flesh. The man who thought he could bet on her. Gwen shoved her elbows out. “You needn’t bother with civility.” Not after everything Father’s investigator had discovered about him.
He tilted his head, dark hair reflecting the candlelight. He was, perhaps, ten years her senior.
Gwen stiffened. “I won’t marry you.” The man had beaten a slave to death last month.
He laughed. “Marriage, now that’s a lovely word. I could see you as my wife.”
She rolled her eyes. “Never.” Far from following the Way, Fabius kept mistresses and slept with slaves.
“Perhaps your father will see things differently. I can get your brother the praetor post that he desires.” Hands on his belt, Fabius stood as confidently as a legate who’d already vanquished his foes.
She scoffed. “My father won’t ransom my happiness for my brother’s.”
“So sure?” Fabius slanted his eyebrows up.
The idiot. Father would never let her marry someone with such poor character. Father would certainly never accept a man’s betrothal if she disagreed. Ninety rejected marriage offers proved that.
Father had said if Fabius asked for her, he’d throw the man out of the house. Since Fabius obviously had no qualms about forcing any woman whose dowry he coveted to marry him, she’d greatly enjoy seeing him dumped into the street. Gwen bit her fingernail. “Father has wanted Wryn to get that position.”
A self-satisfied smile parted Fabius’ mouth. “I can obtain the position for him.”
“Oh.” Gaze downcast, she tried to summon a chagrined face. It wasn’t a face she had much practice with. “I suppose I should treat you with more respect if you’re to be my husband.”
A disturbingly cruel light shone in his eyes. “Yes, you should.”
Oh, to strike him! She’d relish his expression when Father threw him out of the villa more, though. Fabius turned and walked away.
A sandal struck the stone. Marcellus grabbed both her hands. “Did he hurt you?”
Gwen blinked. “Who?”
“Fabius, that villain.” Revoltingly dirty curse words slid from Marcellus’ handsome mouth.
“Oh.” Her face heated. “We needn’t talk about that.” Her actions had been immature, but she’d savor the look on Fabius’ face when he tried to ask Father for her hand. Marcellus hadn’t overheard what she said, had he?
“I hate fathers.” Marcellus glared at the marble.
“You weren’t close to your father before he died?” Three years ago, Marcellus’ father had died at the hand of a slave. Rumor said Marcellus had ordered all one hundred of his slaves executed in response, in accordance with the law. She could never believe that of him.
Marcellus’ face went dark. “I had a sister once. My father’s betrothal plans killed her.” He spun on his heel toward the gardens where the shroud of darkness beckoned.
She followed him, and when several rows of hedges blocked the villa, she looked into his face. “How?”
“I was fifteen when I found her sobbing in the garden. My father had betrothed her to a man she didn’t want. She died in childbirth that first year of marriage. She was too young to be with child.” Marcellus glared at the grass.
“I know that story. Everyone said your father did it to get you the political connections for your tribune assignment in Dacia. Why didn’t you tell him not to?” Marcellus’ sister had just turned twelve then.
Marcellus spun away.
“You were twenty, not fifteen when you got stationed to the Dacia legion, brought glory to Rome as a war hero.”
Instead of answering, Marcellus broke a branch off a Cypress tree. He cast it on the ground, his body rigid.
Perhaps he’d aske
d his father to respect his sister’s wishes and his father refused. She hadn’t meant to blame him. “I’m still jealous of your Dacian success. My dearest wish is to become a tribune.” Dearest and most impossible. At least when she grumbled to Marcellus about this, he didn’t laugh at her, unlike Wryn.
Jerking around, Marcellus looked at her, disgust in his eyes.
Disgust? Gwen tore a frond off a juniper. “Women should be allowed in the army. Emperor Trajan’s an idiot for not realizing that.” Marcellus had agreed with her last year when she broached this topic. Well, he kissed her and told her that she combined the wits of Minerva with the beauty of Venus.
“So you’ve told me before, but why conquer and oppress? Know what happens when a Roman army pillages a new conquest? They kill the men, rape the women.”
What? “Good military leaders don’t do that.” Gwen tilted her chin as she gazed up at Marcellus. Darkness covered his face. “My father kept peace in Britannia for twenty years, arrested brigands, made life safer for Roman citizens and Celts alike.”
“Pax Romana, the peace that kills. What if the oppressed someday rise up against their oppressors? Slaves even.” Marcellus’ eyes held the strangest gleam.
“As with Spartacus?” Gwen rubbed behind her neck. “He killed thousands, the unarmed and children too. Rome wiped out every single slave who took part. Even if the ruling class does abuse their power, at least fewer lives are lost.”
“Easy enough to say when you’re the ruling class.” Marcellus held his shoulders stiff, his body taut.
“You’re a patrician too.” She peered at Marcellus’ face.
“All too much talking.” He closed his fingers on either side of her waist and pulled her to him. He moved his mouth toward hers.
“Are you going to ask for me?”
“What do you think?” He caressed his hand across her back, like tongues of fire.
“I bet five hundred denarii you would.”
“Kiss me.” He swept his fingers across her cheekbones, then traced down her jawline.
“Ask for my hand in marriage.” She drew her arms across her chest, separating her body from his. “You told me seven months ago you wanted to spend a lifetime with me.”
He dropped his gaze. His feet shifted on the damp grass.
Footsteps rustled.
“Get back.” Marcellus shoved himself into the greenery.
Still standing on the path, she made out a face through the hedges. “It’s just Fabius. I’m sure he’s kissed a girl in a garden before.” Her voice rose louder than she intended.
Leaping forward, Marcellus slapped his hand across her mouth. He cinched her back against his chest as he dug into the hedge. She squirmed against him. His arms bound her like ropes.
She kicked back, her foot scraping against his shin.
“Stop,” he hissed in her ear. He clamped his legs around her too, violence in every movement.
Hitting back with her elbow, she struggled against him. The branches rustled.
Marcellus twisted her arm behind her back, and she couldn’t move.
The steady tromp of sandal against grass sounded. Fabius scanned the hedges. Then he passed.
Breath whooshed from Marcellus’ lungs. He dropped his hand.
She sprang back and twisted her wrist. It ached like a sprain. “You hurt me.”
“You shouldn’t have fought me.” He gripped his knife as his gaze moved to where Fabius Agricola had disappeared.
It was only Fabius, not Father or someone who would repeat this incident to Father. She shook her wrist out. “If you do that again, I’m going to draw a knife on you.”
“I’m sorry, delicia.” He reached for her hand.
Shoulders square, she marched to a marble bench beneath the Cypress tree.
With one last glance behind him, Marcellus followed her and took a seat next to her.
“I made you a present. Though you don’t deserve it after you manhandled me.” She bent and pulled the basket she’d deposited before the dinner out from under the bench.
“Thank you.” He met her gaze, sorrow in his eyes. He flicked the cloth off, revealing lightly-browned cakes. At least he apologized when she threatened him with a knife rather than roll his eyes like other men.
“Celtic cakes.” The same kind of cakes made by brides for their wedding day, but he wouldn’t know that. She switched to Celtic. “Made for the one I love.”
“You love me?” Marcellus tilted his head. The moonlight reflected off his cheekbones.
“You know Celtic?” He needn’t act so uncomfortable. She’d told him that she loved him before. He’d told her a thousand times.
He froze. “Picked it up in Britannia last year.”
“I never saw you studying.”
He shrugged.
“I have to go. Mother will look for me. What dinner party will you attend next?”
“Next week I’m going to all Ocelli events. Your father won’t allow his familia there.”
“I want to see you.” The scent of violets blew through the bushes, lovely but not as fragrant as the wildflowers Marcellus had plucked for her that time in Britannia when she had a fever. She’d awoken to the flowers by her bedside along with his note. He must have bribed a servant to bring them in.
“Meet me in the marketplace, on Aventine Hill by the weaver’s stall.”
Gwen nodded. “Two days from now at the eighth hour?” Before the fortnight ultimatum ended.
Marcellus nodded. “Bring guards. It’s a rough area.”
She didn’t need guards. Even Wryn acknowledged her skill with a knife.
Chapter 5
The thud of long staff against long staff rose. Stepping out of the fight, Marcellus watched his rabble compete. They’d grown more skilled over the past months.
“Shouldn’t we train with blades?” Androkles’ unkempt hair rose in wild waves.
“Yes, if we could hope to equip the rebels with swords.” Bruno struck. The weight of his staff brought the other man to his knees. “Blades cost coin.”
Androkles looked to Marcellus. “What about after you catch this Viri leader and get paid?”
“Yes, then I’m buying enough blades for an army.” Marcellus tightened sweaty hands over the smooth staff.
“What’s this?” Androkles nudged a covered basket. He flipped the cloth off, revealing the cakes Gwen had baked.
“Mine.” Marcellus lunged.
With a grin, Androkles seized the basket.
Petiphor skipped forward. The boy was too young to fight in a revolt, but he’d found him beaten and left to die. “They’re from Marcellus’ ladylove, Gwen Paterculi.”
Androkles bit into one of the cakes and shoved the basket at the new recruit. “I didn’t know patrician girls could cook like this.”
“Gwen’s quite the girl.” Marcellus grabbed for the cakes, but the new recruit passed the basket to Bruno.
“Quite the patrician too.” The new recruit spat on the churned mud. “Paterculis have no doubt abused and killed thousands. A life for a life, a patrician dies for every slave they’ve killed.”
“Marcellus only bothers with her to get information for the Viri.” Bruno bit into yet another of his cakes.
“Untrue.” Petiphor plunged unwashed hands into the basket. “Marcellus loves her.”
Marcellus pushed the boy and grabbed for his basket.
“Fight me.” The new recruit swung his long staff.
Lunging back, Marcellus caught up his staff and blocked the new recruit’s blow. As wood clashed against wood, Marcellus shifted his gaze to the weaver’s stall. Gwen should arrive in moments.
Bruno stabbed with his long staff from the right.
Marcellus caught the impact with the end of his staff.
“You love her. Deny it. Deny it!” Petiphor crammed two cakes into his mouth as he danced around the fight.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s a patrician.” And he a slave. Marcellus swung right. His savage blow h
it Bruno. Even a freed slave was not permitted to touch, let alone marry, a patrician of her class.
“Yea, the kind we’ve sworn to kill.” The new recruit whipped his staff left. A breeze blew the stench of the hovels’ refuse toward them.
“You won’t kill anyone with those sorts of blows.” Holding the staff in two hands, Marcellus threw his weight forward. With a yelp, the new recruit staggered back.
Something swished by the weaver’s stall. A glimpse of pinned-up curls flashed from behind a woven tapestry.
Marcellus dropped his long staff. “Gwen can’t discover I live here or know you.”
“Yes, sir.” The men’s voices rose in chorus.
Gwen ran her finger down the fabric hanging from the weaver’s stall. Ragged children ran by. An older woman with gnarled knuckles caught her hand. “A coin, domina? I have no husband or children to provide for me.”
Digging into the pouch at her waist, Gwen pressed coins into the woman’s hands. “Visit the Fides fuller, to the north, past the bakers’ district. We have a position mixing fuller’s earth. It’s good pay for light work.”
“Thank you, domina. May Juno richly bless you for your kindness.” The woman bowed.
Jesus, not Juno, but time enough to tell the woman that when she worked at the fuller’s shop. Profits had been good so she could hire at least another three workers this month, perhaps four. Yesterday, though, she’d met a dozen women of infamia looking to leave prostitution and find honest work.
A hand touched the small of her back. “Gwen.”
Whipping around, her bare shoulder scraped Marcellus’ chest.
His gaze darted right and left. “Where are your guards?”
“I didn’t need them tattling.”
“You came alone? You could have gotten killed.” His voice held condemnation.
Ha! Father had trained her with a knife same as Wryn and Eric.
“Walk with me.” Taking her hand, he gestured through the streets to the roar of the Tiber. “And pull your palla over your hair.”
“I don’t wear pallae. Men don’t wear them, nor do Celtic women.”
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 5