True, and the consul could order him flogged again. Marcellus dropped his arm.
Rubbing at his strangled neck, Fabius glared at him.
“Divorce her, now.” Consul Julius plopped his stylus atop the wax tablets. “Before we have some mixed blood child to answer to the Paterculis for.”
Marcellus rested his blood-stained thumb on the desk. “Could be too late for that.”
With a groan, Consul Julius grabbed a parchment from the shelf. “Here, ready-made divorce paperwork from last year when my wife infuriated me. Fill in Caius Marcellus and Gwen’s names and the dowry amount.”
“I’d need the Marcellus signet ring to make any divorce official.”
“Speaking of signet rings, how did you make those marriage papers official?” Fabius glared at him. “I have the Marcellus signet ring locked in my villa.”
He’d told Fabius his villa wasn’t secure. Marcellus shrugged.
Consul Julius shoved the parchment forward. “Since you obviously do have the Marcellus signet ring, Corann, produce it and sign these papers.”
Corann, the name his mother had called him before she died, and he the one to blame for her death. With effort, Marcellus shoved away the emotions. “No.”
Consul Julius clamped his hands on the table. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Sweat built underneath Marcellus’ tunic. He walked the edge of a knife here. They could very well kill him for this. All in all, though, he wielded more power if Gwen stayed.
First, the likelihood of the Shadow Man stabbing a knife through his ribs decreased. Second, as a master who had allowed his slave to impersonate a patrician, Consul Julius bore the blame for whatever deeds he committed while in that disguise. The Roman courts would see it that way too if Aquilus Paterculi ever discovered his daughter had unintentionally committed the infamia of bedding with a slave and, of course, pursued violent retribution.
Also, he couldn’t protect Gwen if she left. Marcellus widened his stance. “I refuse.”
“We’ll expose your slave past.” The consul glared at him.
“You need me to topple the Shadow Man, and I’m not divorcing Gwen.”
“That’s Domina Paterculi to you, slave.” Fabius swung with his fist. Consul Julius grabbed his arm.
The consul ran his penetrating gaze over Marcellus as he clicked one jeweled finger against the table.
Marcellus’ breath stuck in his throat, but he forced his dry tongue to move. “I want the Marcellus estates too.”
“Absolutely not.” Consul Julius slammed his fist down. “You agreed to your freedom and coin. That’s what you’re getting.”
If he didn’t have the estates, Gwen would realize he wasn’t Marcellus. He’d have to give her up as soon as he caught the Shadow Man and lost the villa. In so doing, what if he brought infamia on her? “But Gwen—”
“Will become a respectable widow after the Shadow Man’s caught, we declare Caius Marcellus dead, and you disappear to far-off parts.” Consul Julius narrowed his eyes into slits.
They’d make him lose Gwen. Marcellus’ heart contorted. No. Marcellus balled his fists. “I want her.”
The consul shrugged. “So does Fabius. Doesn’t mean he’s getting her. And he, unlike you, is a patrician.”
“I should murder you for taking my woman.” Fabius fingered his knife.
“You can have her after Marcellus is declared dead.” Consul Julius flicked his hand to Marcellus. “Leave some last testament urging your grieving wife to marry Fabius.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Marcellus clenched his concealed knife.
“As if I’d want her after he’s had her.” Fabius glared at Marcellus.
Marcellus smiled. Exactly the irrational patrician attitude he’d hoped for when first formulating this plan. At least he’d spared Gwen the torture of marriage to Fabius.
“If you don’t agree to divorce Gwen today, we’ll tell the Paterculis your true heritage. Think Gwen would want you then?” Fabius glared at him.
No. She’d reject him in a moment. Marcellus squared his shoulders. “Do you think Aquilus Paterculi will content himself with retribution against the slave who did the deed, or come after the master who gave him the power to do it?”
“You’ll die first.” The consul hardened his saggy chin.
Marcellus folded his arms. “So be it.”
A groan slid through the consul’s wrinkled lips. “You can keep Gwen until you bring down the Viri. Then you will leave.”
“I want the Marcellus estates,” and Gwen, “as my reward.”
“Never,” Consul Julius and Fabius said together.
“I’ve risked my life three years for you in this spy work. No other spy you had lasted more than two months before the Viri discovered his identity and killed him.”
“Yes, free men who suffered a tragic end.” Fabius spat. “Fortunately for us, you’re just a slave, so it doesn’t matter if you die.”
Marcellus turned to Consul Julius. “You chose me because I bear my father’s face. You can’t deny it. There is no living Marcellus heir. Give me the estates.”
The consul crossed saggy arms. “You’re a slave, Corann. Unless you do as we command, you’ll remain a slave. I’ll bend no further.”
A sigh slid through Marcellus’ teeth. A few months with Gwen. More if he dragged out capturing the Shadow Man. Better than he thought he’d get a month ago. Once he caught the Shadow Man, she’d be safe from the Viri.
But growing old with her? The two of them at that northern villa? A familia together?
He’d hoped for too much. He had a slave revolt to lead. First, though, he intended to make the most of every day he had with Gwen.
Marcellus looked at Consul Julius. “I need coin to make the villa run, hire servants such as Gwen would expect from a patrician household.” Or he could use Gwen’s dowry. Twenty-five million sestertii, what kind of kings even possessed such wealth? Children starved for lack of food while patricians lay down twenty-five million sestertii to cement a bond between men and women who felt nothing for each other.
“If you find yourself unable to keep up the pretense of patrician wealth, then you can divorce her,” Consul Julius spat out between chapped lips. “I shouldn’t even allow you to stay at that villa.”
The consul was allowing that, though. Marcellus smiled. Now that he had the signet ring, he could start collecting profits from the Marcellus estates. He needed coin for blades too.
“Don’t you dare use that signet ring to collect profits from the Marcellus estates.” Consul Julius glared.
Preempted. Marcellus stifled a groan.
The consul shoved back further in his chair. “I expect this Shadow Man caught within the next two months, or I may reevaluate your usefulness.”
Marcellus’ stomach knotted. Unlike Fabius, Consul Julius rarely made idle threats.
“You’re letting him off his offense with no penalty.” Fabius swung around. “I’ll scourge him myself. Though he deserves death, not just the mark of the lash for what he’s done.”
Marcellus stood motionless. He felt the sting of Fabius’ lash once before, metal bits gouging into his flesh along with the bite of leather. He couldn’t rise from his bed for a fortnight after. “Then Gwen will know I’m a slave. Once she reveals that fact to her father, not only is my work with the Viri destroyed, you’ll be the ones whose heads Legate, soon-to-be Consul, Paterculi wants.”
“So?” Fabius swung his haughty gaze over. “Don’t let Gwen see your back.”
Expression as carefree as if the man couldn’t order his death, Marcellus smiled. “She shares my bed. How am I going to hide that?”
Rage swept over Fabius’ features. Clenching his fingers around his knife, he looked ready to sink it through flesh. “Your bed? Nothing in that villa is yours. Nothing! And—”
“Fabius, enough.” Consul Julius jerked his thumb to the chair beside him. “Marcellus, you are dismissed.”
Marcellus nodd
ed. “Also, there’s a Viri shipment coming in tonight, five miles upriver of Ostia by the fallen oak grove.”
As much as he hated Fabius, the man would follow the law and free the illegally enslaved men on that boat.
Once the sound of Marcellus’ sandals faded, Fabius shook Consul Julius’ table. “You let him get away with this. He stole my woman.”
“Kill him then.” Consul Julius took up another tablet. “I’ll give him to you as your slave after the Shadow Man’s caught, and you can choose whatever painful death you desire.”
“Killing’s much too good for him. I’m sending him to the salt mines.”
The consul glanced up. “He knows too much. If I give him to you, I’ll have to insist you ensure he dies.”
Fabius dug his nails into the table. “I’ll cut his tongue out first, then send him to the salt mines.”
Consul Julius shrugged. “Not as clean as killing, but very well.”
“I still don’t see why you tolerate his insolence. You said you had another means to ensure his cooperation.”
Consul Julius took up a goblet of wine and drank deeply. He finished and the silver base clipped against the table as he set it down. “Yes, but I don’t intend to use her yet.”
Chapter 14
Gwen paced the courtyard as shadows lengthened. How long would Fabius’ wretched business take? She should have left for Lucia’s birthday celebration already, but she’d not go without Marcellus.
The rabble patrolled the courtyard. Father’s house had numerous guards too, but unlike these uncouth men, they’d never speak so coarsely to her or barge through a door. She’d see that never happened again.
Gwen glanced to Bruno, who marched a pace away. “Bruno, can you hit that tree?”
“What?” He swiveled.
“With your knife.” She pointed to a laurel trunk across the courtyard. “Show me.”
“Um.” Bruno toyed with his knife handle. Raising his arm, he threw it. The blade landed in the dirt past the trunk.
“Not bad.” Sliding her knife from her leg sheath, she raised her arm high. With a snap of her wrist, she flung the blade. It spun as it flew. The blade sank into the trunk, handle quivering. “I can make that throw every time, so I’d suggest next time you see a closed door, you knock.”
Androkles took a step forward, his big shadow falling over her. “Are you threatening to throw a knife between our shoulder blades?”
“Not precisely. Though….” She dragged out the word.
“Of all the back-stabbing—” Androkles stared. “We’re twenty men to your one.”
“So?” The new recruit kicked a bush. “It’s not as if you can throw a knife at her. Marcellus would have your head.”
Bruno groaned. “I’m sorry, domina. I’ll never treat you with such disrespect again.”
“You’re no more innocent than he, Androkles.” Gwen shifted her gaze.
“My apologies, domina.” Androkles kicked a tree root. “I’ll keep my mouth shut henceforth.”
“A wise recourse when you have nothing of an uplifting nature to say.” She glanced to the new recruit.
“I’m sorry.” The new recruit burned his sullen glare into the cobblestones.
“Thank you.” She inclined her head and smiled. The men turned back to the villa.
Ahead, a familiar shadow fell across the street. Marcellus jangled his key in the gate lock.
She raced to him. “You’re late, and why do you do business with Fabius?”
“Have to.” Marcellus’ face had an ashen tint.
“Why?”
“I’m sorry I took so long.” He caressed her cheek. “I know you wanted to show me your fuller’s shop.”
Not an answer to her question. “No time now. We’re an hour late for my familia already.”
“I’d rather stay here.” He slid his hand around hers.
She wrapped her other hand around his too. “We have a lifetime to stay here. Come.”
Did he just wince? “Very well then, delicia.” Bending, he kissed her.
“As to that, you must embrace propriety at my familia’s house. My father’s already leery of this marriage without you touching me in front of him.”
“And there’s nothing that man who’s conquered provinces and received abject obedience from thousands can do about it.”
“Exactly. Thank you for understanding how my father must feel about us.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. The bruise on his jawbone swelled further than this morn, and was that dried blood on the wound? She grimaced. “I’m sure my familia will soon come to like you better.”
Marcellus shrugged and moved to the gate.
Their feet clipped against the cobblestones as city workers and jostling pedestrians bustled by. A litter borne high on the shoulders of slaves passed them.
Marcellus held her tight against him.
Then the gate of her familia’s house loomed ahead of them. Gwen lay her head against his shoulder, sucking in the scent of him before they entered her familia’s house and all that unpleasantness. “I’m sorry about what you’re walking into tonight.”
“Whatever it is, I’ve seen worse.” He stroked her hair. His fingers caressed down her neck to rest above the concave between her shoulder bones, one finger just beneath the fabric. He’d need to stop that before they passed through this gate.
“When?”
“Fought in Dacia, remember?”
He didn’t bear a single sword mark or spear gash, at least not that she’d seen. Father had only fought in skirmishes, and he had several.
Marcellus rested his hand on her waist, his skin so warm against the thin tunica fabric. She needed to buy a stola. Married women wore a stola over their tunica. Marcellus hadn’t given her a betrothal ring, the mark of a married woman, yet either.
In moments, she’d walk into the house she’d abandoned only yesterday with no marriage stola, no betrothal ring, and a man. Wryn, being Wryn, would have some comment to make. Eric might too, though he had no room to speak.
Her stomach churned as heat rose across her body.
This morning, she had the courage of first encounter. Now, though, she’d sit by her familia, eat with them—with Marcellus. Oftentimes he said and did the most inappropriate things.
She knotted her fingers between his. “I’m afraid, Marcellus.”
“I thought you wished to come tonight?” The bloodied bruise on his jaw only grew with the lapse of time.
“I do. But… and you will behave yourself?”
“If you wish to run back to the villa, I’ll not complain.” With a laugh, he grabbed both her hands and held them to his chest. “Otherwise, that porter’s waiting for us.” He nodded to where Germanus swung the gate open for them. The old servant narrowed his eyes.
Marcellus stood confidently, his one hand resting on his belt. If he could walk into this gathering with a smile, so could she. She moved to the gate. Hand in hand, Marcellus and she entered the villa.
Click, thud, click, thud, their sandals moved across the empty atrium.
A new curtain hung from the all-too-familiar triclinium entrance. Inside, she could hear her familia’s voices. The heat of terror flashed through her veins. She shot a desperate glance to Marcellus. “Wryn’s going to say something that makes me want the floor to open up and swallow me.”
“Brothers who don’t care about your happiness aren’t worth bothering about.”
It wasn’t that Wryn didn’t care. He just, well, he was Wryn.
Marcellus shoved the curtain open. Arm around her waist, he stepped into the light within.
Low double-wide couches surrounded the table overflowing with food. Hands fell from spoons and voices died as all eyes swiveled to them.
Cara leaped from the dining couch she shared with Eric. “Gwen! And this is your new husband?”
Marcellus inclined his head to her. Many other patricians looked away when introduced to Eric’s wife, a plebeian. Behold, he
r familia had misjudged Marcellus.
“Good to see you, Gwen.” Eric embraced her, his brotherly touch fierce. “Marcellus.” Eric gave him the barest of nods.
“You enter my house again, Marcellus. I see you remembered the way through the atrium from last time.” Not a muscle in Father’s face moved.
“Gwen.” Mother wrapped her in a hug. Were those tears in Mother’s eyes? Mother never cried. Blinking back wetness, Mother turned to Marcellus. “Welcome, you must tell us of your time in the Dacian Wars. My son is stationed near there in Moesia.”
“Gwen.” Wryn nodded to her from across the room.
What would he say next? Gwen tensed her hand against Marcellus’, her body rigid.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Wryn looked at her and averted his gaze from Marcellus.
No cynical words? This evening might go well after all. “Did Aulia visit today, Mother?”
“Yes, she did,” Mother said. “She borrowed some embroidery thread. Something about a project you and she worked on?”
Gwen smiled. A project Wryn must not discover. In truth, she shouldn’t have indulged Aulia in it. “Is she still distressed about her betrothed’s death?”
Marcellus brushed his hand against her thigh.
“Marcellus,” Gwen hissed.
Mother’s voice tensed. “Aulia seemed in good enough spirits.”
Father clenched his fist, and did Wryn just fondle his dagger?
With a cough, Gwen glanced to Cara. She crumbled a roll for Lucia.
Marcellus spanned his hand around Gwen’s hips as he moved behind her. He brushed his mouth against her neck.
“Marcellus!” She flicked her gaze up to him. Did she need to demonstrate her knife-throwing skills to him as well as his rabble?
His green eyes didn’t even hold chagrin.
One way to solve this problem. Sliding away, she hurried to where Cara sat. “Why, look at Lucia. How she’s grown.”
“Baba.” The child stretched her arms out.
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 15