To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Oh, I think a Paterculi’s always a Paterculi.” Victor inclined his head, and Marcellus moved past, pulling her with him.

  “I never should have let you come tonight,” Marcellus muttered.

  She glanced at his face. Did fear burn in his eyes? He needn’t worry Victor would try to murder her. She had a knife and knew how to use it.

  No food sat at dinner tables yet. Guests mingled holding goblets. Marcellus moved away from her.

  She leaned back against a pillar, abandoned. Several knots of people vied for Marcellus’ attention, but she recognized few faces here. The breeze blew her hair as faint moonlight illuminated the gardens.

  “Salve, Gwen.”

  She looked up to a lanky figure. “John.” She squirmed. She never even properly rejected him. “I didn’t know you kept company with Ocellis.”

  “Not everyone is prestigious enough to offend men out of conviction.”

  Had John heard about how she married Marcellus? Gwen wiped sweaty palms on her skirt. Of course, he had. All Rome had. Her voice shrank. “I’m sorry I didn’t decline you in person.”

  John grimaced, then shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s you who’s married to that man.” He gritted his teeth against each other.

  Had Wryn shared his opinion of Marcellus with John? Or did all of Rome just inexplicably hate Marcellus? Except for Victor Ocelli, a murderer. She chafed her thumb across her finger. “John. You’ve driven chariots.” He’d often mentioned it.

  He nodded.

  “If a charioteer fell from the platform, what would the injuries look like?” Would they look like Marcellus’ back?

  John blinked. “Um, deep lacerations, I guess. If he had the reins tied behind him, as most do, he’d have two main cuts.”

  “What about hundreds of lacerations crisscrossing a back, some deep, some shallow, with the skin torn and rehealed?” And gouges. Marcellus had finger-deep gouges on his back.

  “That sounds like a slave’s back. My sisters do work with freedmen. Even the children bear scars. In my opinion, Christus would have us abolish slavery. Why?”

  She raised one shoulder as she tried to shrug. “No reason.” Perhaps Marcellus had been captured by Dacians and beaten there. Sometimes army officers used corporal punishment, but why wouldn’t he tell her that?

  A body brushed hers. She twisted. Marcellus.

  He glanced at John. No friendliness lingered in either man’s gaze. Marcellus smiled. Taking her hand, Marcellus placed it on his arm. “Time to take our places at the dinner.”

  A dissatisfied expression crossed John’s face, but he turned away.

  A plump young man jostled between Marcellus and her. “Here.” With a grunt, the plump man shoved a jar into Marcellus’ hands. “Your winnings. It’s fifteen thousand denarii if it’s an as.”

  “My winnings for what?” Marcellus placed his other hand under the jar too.

  The plump man leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Why, getting Aquilus Paterculi to give you his daughter, of course.”

  Marcellus dropped the jar on a table as his gaze darted to her. “I didn’t bet.”

  The plump man plopped his hand on Marcellus’ shoulder. “Fabius wanted to disqualify you for your methods, but the rest of us applauded your ingenuity.” He leaned closer to Marcellus’ ear. “With the way her father was rejecting offers, she might have turned thirty without a match if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  Then, whistling a tune, the plump man plodded on.

  Marcellus grabbed her hand, his green eyes wide. “I swear I didn’t bet on you. You have to believe me.” He looked as discomforted as a newly-shaven ewe.

  “I know.” Gwen smiled. “I forged your signature. I thought I told you.”

  “When you said that night you bet on me, you meant you forged my signature and made me bet on you?” His green eyes widened to breaking.

  “Of course.” She slipped her hand over his arm. “Dinner?”

  “I would have had to come up with five hundred denarii in a loss?” He looked much more discomforted by that small amount of coin than he ought. Marcellus glanced to the jar. “Also, I feel objectified.”

  She shrugged. “I’m going to use it to redecorate your villa. Your furniture is not only worn out, but your taste in wall murals is also appalling.”

  He laughed and shook his head. He traced his finger down her shoulder. “I’ve never met a woman like you, Gwen.” His gaze touched her lips.

  “My winnings then, Dominus Marcellus.” She flipped her hand out.

  “Don’t call me that.” He thrust back from her. Anger burned on his face, his green eyes filled with—hate?

  He turned on his heel. Several paces from her, he stayed his step and glanced back. A man touched his shoulder.

  Their voices fell. The man handed Marcellus a folded parchment, and he slid it inside his tunic.

  A Few Moments Before

  Marcellus flashed his gaze to Gwen. Dominus, domina, a tease, or term of endearment, words a wife and husband would often call each other. Gwen hadn’t meant it to anger him, but Dominus Marcellus was the title he’d called the man who’d raped his mother.

  Taking deep breaths, he forced away the rising red covering his wits. He could control the rages better than three years ago when he’d cost thirty slaves their lives. He looked to Gwen. As long as she stayed within his eyesight, nothing would happen to her here. He hoped.

  If the Shadow Man had hired a different assassin to kill Gwen, Victor or Cato would know. They’d not tell him, though. Gwen thought she had skill with a blade. Perhaps so, but she didn’t have the stomach to kill. If you didn’t slash to kill, a blade had no more potency than a feather, for you would fall to the first opponent who was more merciless than you.

  “Smuggling operation tonight, a mile north of the Ostia port,” Cato said. “I’ll need you to unload the cargo.”

  Ostia, that ride would take half the night. He wouldn’t reach home much before dawn. He could only hope Gwen slept well. “How large a cargo?”

  “Three ships, mostly grain and olive oil.”

  Not slaves, good. Because though Consul Julius expected to be informed of each shipment, he couldn’t tell him about more than one in five without arousing the Viri’s suspicion—like a year ago when Fabius had almost gotten him killed capturing ten out of twelve of the Viri’s shipments.

  “Here’s a map.” Cato thrust it into his hands. “A week from today, I’m hosting a dinner at my house. I’ll give you further instructions then.”

  Marcellus stuffed the map underneath his tunic as Cato turned on his heel.

  Slaves laden with heavy trays of delicacies they’d not get to touch moved into the room. A boy no older than ten held a tray of goblets as high as he could. Marcellus grimaced. How often had he done that?

  The boy stumbled. Wine spilled across the tile. Terror streaked the child’s face. The boy jumped for a towel.

  He’d bear the mark of the lash tonight for his childish mistake. Not for much longer though. Marcellus clenched his knife. He’d launch his slave revolt, and boys like that would gain the right to hold up their heads in freedom.

  “Marcellus.”

  He turned.

  Victor’s black-eyed gaze bore into him. “The Shadow Man was followed last night. He says there’s a spy in our midst.”

  The Shadow Man had noticed the rabble then. Marcellus held onto the mask he’d perfected as a boy lying to masters to spare himself the lash. “Why didn’t the Shadow Man tell me this?”

  “He suspects you.”

  Marcellus met Victor’s gaze. “It’s not me.”

  “I know.” Victor slapped his hand on Marcellus’ shoulder as if they were brothers. Ha! “You’ve been invaluable to me this last year, but your marriage to the Paterculi daughter doesn’t look good.” Victor swung his gaze to Gwen, his scrutiny all too intense.

  Marcellus forced a shrug. “I didn’t realize the Shadow Man expected to arrange my betrothal. D
o I need his permission to take my wife to bed as well?”

  Victor’s much-too interested face didn’t lighten. “You should kill her as the Shadow Man suggested.”

  Victor had the Shadow Man’s ear, meaning this advice could very well come from him. If the Shadow Man had assigned someone to kill Gwen, he’d have chosen Cato, not Victor, though. Marcellus glanced to Victor. “Would you kill your wife if the Shadow Man asked it?”

  Victor shrugged. “Not right now. She’s with child, and I need a son. But if it was her life against mine,” he hesitated, “and you’re more ruthless than I.”

  Ecce, same as Fabius’ putrid view of Gwen. The patricians who died in his slave revolt would deserve it. “I’m not killing Gwen.”

  “Then you’d best ensure Legate Paterculi and his sons continue to hate you. One glimpse of goodwill, and the Shadow Man will assume his suspicions are confirmed.” With a smile, Victor turned away.

  Why did Marcellus act like this? Did she even know the man? Gwen scanned the crowded chamber. The man Marcellus had spoken to stood across the room.

  Walking up to the man would break introduction rules, but she’d broken many bounds of propriety this week. As she strode to the man, he turned his gaze to her. Was that interest in his eyes? Slamming to a halt in front of him, she met his gaze. “I’m Gwen Paterculi. You?”

  “Cato.” His dark eyes held a dangerous glint.

  “How do you know my husband?”

  “We do business together.” Cato parted his thin lips. “Marcellus has indeed found himself a beautiful wife.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Walk with me and I’ll tell you.” Cato gestured to the courtyard outside the colonnades.

  She dragged her foot against the tile. Should she go to the darkened gardens with this man she’d never met?

  “Perhaps you would like to hear some stories about him? Marcellus is a mysterious man.” Cato’s skin had a yellow pallor.

  Marcellus was that. She had her knife, so, in truth, what did she fear? She followed Cato and the lighted villa faded behind them. In the peristyle, high hedges made long shadows.

  Someone grabbed her arm from behind. She struck back with her fist. Oh, Marcellus. She dropped her hand.

  With a glance to Cato, who merely smiled, Marcellus yanked her back to the hedges. “What are you doing?” he hissed in her ear.

  “Just getting to know your friends.” She shoved at his hand. His grip hurt. “I thought I should learn about the man I married.”

  “Cato’s not my friend.”

  “He said you’ve known each other years.”

  “Never approach Cato again.” Anger flushed Marcellus’ face. Anger at her?

  “I only wanted to learn more about you. I know so little about the man I call husband.” Tears welled in her eyes. Not just her familia, but even John and Livia thought Marcellus a brute.

  Marcellus circled his arm around her waist. He stroked his hand down her back, brushing the hair from her cheek with his other. He dropped his voice, so gentle now. “You’ll not learn about me from Cato.”

  Her heart stilled and she pulled back from him. “Which patricians are your friends then?”

  “I count no patrician as friend.”

  “What about me?” The darkened hedge blocked the sights and noise within the Ocelli villa, just like at the parties last year.

  He twisted his mouth up, warmth in his eyes. “You’re my wife, and that’s a thousand times better than any mere friend.”

  “Friendship’s part of marriage, growing old together.”

  His face fell. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He turned.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To speak to my not friends.” He kicked a rock.

  “If you dislike them so much, stop doing business with them.”

  He shook his head.

  In a single long stride, she caught him. “Whether Cato’s your friend or no, I’m still interested in his thoughts.”

  “Don’t talk to him.” Grabbing her shoulders, he got in her face to speak. “You hear me?”

  With a groan, she nodded. She definitely needed to pull a knife on him soon.

  Chapter 18

  Gwen rolled over. She stretched her hand to the other side of the bed. Cold. She jolted up. Moonlight from the third watch of the night streamed through the window. Where was Marcellus?

  Grabbing the coverlet, she walked to the door. It was shut fast. She worried too much. He’d probably awakened and stepped out for a moment for….

  For what? He had a reputation.

  Reputations were just gossip. Or were they?

  Weariness tugged at her eyes. She sat on the couch. He’d walk back into their room in moments. She’d wait up and see.

  Time dragged as the moon sank. Gwen’s eyelids sagged over her eyes.

  A footstep sounded. Gwen jerked up. The first glimmers of dawn penetrated the window. Marcellus stood a pace within the entranceway.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” Crossing the room, he brushed his hand across her cheek.

  Had he been buckling on that belt to wake or taking it off for sleep? She grabbed his hand. “Where were you last night?”

  “Here with you.” Grass stained the edge of his tunic and the moistness of dew clung to his chest.

  “No, you weren’t. I woke up and you weren’t here.”

  “I woke early and did some work in the gardens.” His weight shifted the couch as he sat.

  “No, hours ago.”

  “I went for a drink of water.” He ran his fingers through her loose hair. Tugging her into his lap, he leaned over her and touched his mouth to hers. “Did I call your lips best in the Empire? I spoke falsehood. It would take another world, Mt. Olympus and the goddess of beauty to compare to—”

  She wrested away from him. “You expect me to believe you slept here this entire night and I just chanced to wake the few moments you stepped out?” She stayed awake at least an hour waiting before she’d fallen asleep. Right? Time did drag differently at night.

  Marcellus eased his arms around her stiff body. “My movement must have woken you. Besides, where else would I have been?”

  That was the question she feared to answer.

  He slid one hand across her stomach. Tossing her black curls across her shoulder, he pulled her onto him again. “I don’t know how I came to be so smiled upon by fortune as to hold you in my arms.”

  She twisted against him. “You promise you were here all night?”

  “Of course, delicia.”

  “The household keys?” Gwen held out her hand.

  Marcellus’ throat moved as he swallowed. He shifted his feet, almost squirming against the tile. “You don’t really need them, do you? All the doors are open anyway.”

  “Every Roman matron gets household keys, and those back rooms are locked.” Gwen pointed to where one of the rabble marched.

  The keys swung in Marcellus’ hands. She grabbed for them. He hastily clipped them on his belt. “You can’t go in there anyway.”

  “Why?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “It’s the rabble’s quarters. You don’t want to walk in on a naked man.”

  “Very well, I won’t open that door. Those household keys then?” She hooked her finger in the iron circle and tugged at his belt.

  He clasped her hand and brought it up against his chest. “Leave you alone on your third day in your new home? Let me open what you need.”

  She would have household keys, but she motioned him to the tablinum. Dusty tablets lay on shelves, rolled up scrolls cluttering the cabinet behind a table. Sitting on a stool, she plunked her elbows on the table. “Show me the latest villa figures.”

  “The what?” Marcellus’ gaze rooted to the couch on the far end of the room. A tinge of brown discolored the center of the couch’s yellow cushion. She needed to replace all the furniture in this domus.

  “List of profits from your villas.” Gwen tugged the table drawer open. A t
ablet lay inside.

  “I, uh, don’t know.” Still, he stared at that couch. He clenched both fists.

  “Where’s your steward?” Bending, Gwen blew across the tablet, puffing dust off the wax. Numbers lined this tablet, outlining the price of grain and wine, and how many ligulas of each the Marcellus northern villas produced. She looked at the date. Three years old!

  Marcellus fondled his knife as he glared at that brown-stained couch cushion.

  Standing, she swept to the shelf. One after another, she tugged the tablets down. All dust-covered. All three years old.

  Ripping his gaze from the couch, Marcellus strode to the door with the keys.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Work.”

  “Doing what?” She raised her hand. “You haven’t taken care of your villas. You don’t have a political appointment.”

  “Can’t talk now.” Moving back, he pressed his mouth to hers. Then he raised one hand and stifled a yawn.

  If he really had slept in their bedchamber all night, why did he yawn? Gwen flicked dust off the desk. “I need your signet ring to start writing to the villa stewards and collecting profits. You shouldn’t have let things come to such a sorry pass.” Months-thick layers of dust on the accounts? Had Marcellus no work ethic?

  He stiffened. “You mustn’t.”

  “Why?”

  He turned on his heel, taking the household keys with him. No signet ring flashed on his finger, which meant he’d left it here. She rattled a moneybox. No noise. Why were the Marcellus coffers empty?

  When the thud of Marcellus’ sandals had faded into the streets beyond, Gwen walked into their bedchamber. A locked box sat on one shelf. She inserted her lock pick. The lock gave way. The image of a tiger, claws bared, stared up at her from the signet ring. Excellent. She slipped it on her hand.

  Now to write to all five vineyard stewards before she headed for the fuller’s shop and discover why Marcellus had received no profits. Perhaps discover a little more about this husband of hers too. Gwen glanced to the bed sheets, smooth now, though not at her hand.

  Had Marcellus truly slept at home last night?