“Marcellus!”
With a groan, Marcellus crashed back against the cabinet. “Caius was five years older than me, the same age as Fabius. They went to school together, and Fabius would come over often.”
“You knew Fabius as a child?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Marcellus kicked the cabinet. It teetered. “Caius and Fabius tortured all the slave children, but especially me for how much I resembled Caius. The week Caius’ sister was betrothed—”
Gwen raised one eyebrow. “Your half-sister?” The one he said died in childbirth at too young an age.
“Yes. Fabius visited one day, back from his first six months as tribune. She wept and told Fabius how miserable she was because her father was selling her off to a man she didn’t want for Caius’ political advancement.”
“Oh.” Gwen looked at the tile. She should have thanked Father more for not being like that, rather than defying him over Marcellus.
“I was holding a midday meal tray when Fabius laughed at her and said it was all girls were good for. I slammed into Fabius with my fists. Bloodied his nose before he got me off him.”
“Then?” She tilted her gaze up.
He shrugged. “Caius gave me a hundred lashes.”
A gasp slid through her teeth. The Old Testament Hebrews wouldn’t allow more than forty lashes because of how brutal each blow was.
Marcellus grinned. “You think my back got to look like it does by me following the rules? You should have seen the bruise Fabius wore across his jawbone for a fortnight. And Caius never struck as hard as Fabius.”
Gwen cocked her head. “When did Fabius strike you?” That was the story he promised her.
Marcellus flinched. Then the all-too-familiar carefree expression dropped across his face. “My first year as Marcellus. Consul Julius’ Viri connection was to a lower ship captain in the ring and yielded little information. Before I got Victor to take me on, the consul planned to find a new spy. So, when I kissed Fabius’ then-betrothed behind a hedge in a Gallic garden—”
“Kissed!”
“Only once, briefly, and she flirted with me first. Ah, to see the look on Fabius’ face.” Marcellus smiled. “He broke off the betrothal the next day, much to her father’s chagrin and her happiness.”
“The scourging?”
He dropped his gaze. “The scourges knotted with metal hurt the most. Couldn’t rise off my stomach for two weeks.”
“Oh, Marcellus.” She touched his hand. A tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto her extended hand.
He caressed his thumb against the back of her hand, wiping away the tear. “It’s all right, Gwen. I’ll be a free man once I catch the Viri leader.”
Her tears rained down still. How could they have treated him like that? How could anyone treat another human being like that? But especially Marcellus, her Marcellus.
He stepped back. “You should wear men’s clothes tonight.” Jerking the cabinet open, he pulled out a brown tunic. He tossed it to her.
The cloth smelled of him. Oh, to bury her face in it and linger in that scent.
“And a cloak to cover your hair.” He yanked a plain wool one out of the cabinet as casually as if she prepared to go with him to a dinner party.
Father or either of her older brothers would be raising a clamor to the heavens by now, protesting that they didn’t want her hurt. Would Marcellus even shed a tear if she got a sword point driven through her? Gwen curled her bare toes against the cool tile. “You truly don’t care if I risk my life?”
Stepping back, he stared at her. He dropped on their bed. Leaning against the wall, he put his hands behind his head and laughter rumbled through his chest. “You want me to order you not to go.”
“No, I don’t.” Then again.
“It’s not that dangerous, delicia. The rabble stays far enough away for safety. The only one risking their life is me.” Reaching forward, he slid his hands over both of hers. “But if you wish me to play the controlling husband….”
She squirmed against the silky fabric of her tunica. “I’d never want that.” Only she just had.
“I ordered the rabble to protect you with their lives. For all my other faults, you needn’t worry I’d ever let you get killed.”
She jerked her hands out of his. “You threatened to take my life yourself.”
“You believed me?” He grinned at her.
Grinned? At murder?
“The reason I married you, Gwen, is because the Viri wanted you dead. Your father’s house was safe, but I knew you’d marry soon. I warned Fabius, but he refused to take the precautions necessary to make his house secure for you. I married you myself to keep you safe.”
He had the look of truth in his eyes. She crossed her arms. “My father never would have allowed Fabius to marry me.”
“I know that now. Though it’s not as if John’s house is secure either.”
“I wasn’t going to marry John.”
Marcellus raised his eyebrows, daring her to deny it again.
“All right, so if I had sense, perhaps I would have married John. He, at least, wouldn’t have threatened to murder me.”
Marcellus swung his feet onto the bed. “Remember the morning of our wedding day when Fabius so rudely interrupted? He wanted me dead for marrying you. That evening, the Shadow Man about stabbed a knife through me for refusing to kill you. Only a week ago, Victor warned me that the Shadow Man still wants me dead over you. So, no, after risking my life to save yours, I’m not about to kill you myself.”
She gave him half a smile. “I’m pleased to know that anyway.”
Swinging his feet off the bed, he stood. “Pleased enough to wish for help changing into that tunic of mine?” His green eyes held a glint halfway between teasing and mocking, as if he asked the absurd.
And yet… She shook herself. He did ask the absurd. She jabbed her finger to the entranceway. “Close the door on your way out.”
Chapter 30
Cold air blew across Gwen’s exposed legs as she shifted in the unfamiliar tunic. A cluster of olive trees hid her and the rabble.
Marcellus’ breath blew against her ear. “Be careful tonight, delicia.” He strode toward the lantern light bobbing off a ship’s masthead.
Perhaps half a watch of the night later, the sound of hoofbeats sounded. Gwen hugged the trunk of an olive tree as Victor and Marcellus’ horses galloped by. Marcellus pulled in on the reins, forcing Victor to slow too.
“Quickly,” Androkles said. Following the curve of the Tiber, the rabble hurried to where Victor and Marcellus had hitched their horses. The muddy river water swirled around Gwen’s ankles as she sprinted.
Bruno held his finger to his lips. Sliding out of her sandals, she tiptoed across pine needles until she could see into the grove where a dozen men and Marcellus stood.
“Victor assures me the Paterculis have no love for you.” A gray hood hung over a man’s features—the Shadow Man!
“It’s true.” Marcellus’ broad shadow fell over the dark grass.
“See it stays that way. I would like to think Cato was our only spy.” Turning, the Shadow Man headed for the far end of the pine grove. Victor grabbed Marcellus’ shoulder.
Like shadows in the night, the rabble ran through the darkness after the Shadow Man. Her legs burned as she struggled to keep up. Pine branches whipped across her face. At the river’s edge, the Shadow Man leaped into a boat. With the splash of oars, the small vessel sped away.
Androkles’ filthy curse assaulted her ears. She winced, and he turned to her. “I’m sorry, domina. If you hadn’t come, you wouldn’t have to hear it.”
She folded her arms. “Marcellus, your leader, said I could come.”
“Marcellus rarely makes wise decisions where you’re concerned.” Androkles slid his gladius into its scabbard.
“By all the gods, that’s the truth.” The new recruit spat on the dark ground.
A footstep rustled the grass. Marcellus ducked under a low-han
ging olive branch.
“We lost him, again.” A groan oomphed from Bruno’s chest.
Taking a running step forward, Gwen grabbed Marcellus’ arm. “The Shadow Man’s a patrician.”
“What?” He turned to her.
“Can’t you hear it in his accent?”
“I heard no accent.” Marcellus looked to the rabble. The men all shook their heads.
“It’s subtle, but he pronounced the last syllables of some of his words like the Greeks do. He’s been trained in Greek from a young age.”
“I don’t know Greek, but if you are sure?” Marcellus tilted his green-eyed gaze to her.
She still clasped his arm. She hastily dropped her hand, but as she did, her fingers slid across the sinews of his arm. How many times had she done that on purpose? When he held her with those arms… not thinking about that! “You don’t know Greek? How did you read the scriptures scroll I gave you?”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m getting you one in Latin.” She bit her lip. Changing him hadn’t worked so well last time. She’d failed every item on her tablet. “If you’ll read it?”
Marcellus nodded. “I’ll read it.”
Large hands resting on his belt, Androkles stepped between her and Marcellus. “What good does it do us to know he’s a patrician? There are thousands of patricians.”
“Thousands too many.” The new recruit kicked the dirt.
What did that mean? “As a patrician,” Gwen said, “the Shadow Man’s moves will be traced by society. We figure out where the Shadow Man’s traveled these last three years, and then research which patricians have visited those countries at the same time.”
Marcellus turned to her. “The Shadow Man started out in Gaul, then traveled to Britannia. He stopped in Germania before coming to Rome, then he went to Sicily with Victor and me.”
Gwen nodded. “I’ll start compiling patricians’ social calendars.” She already had half the work done from last month. “How old would you say the Shadow Man is?”
Marcellus pursed his brow. “Middle-aged? His hands bear a few lines.”
“If he’s that old, he probably holds a political post. My father has a list of influential patricians in his tablinum.”
Marcellus swung his gaze to Androkles. “Wish to tell me to my face that I don’t make wise decisions where the domina’s concerned?”
Androkles dropped his gaze to his feet. “No, sir.”
Grabbing his horse’s saddle horn, Marcellus swung onto the steed. “Then the only question is, should we knock on the Paterculi gate, or break in, domina?” Gripping the horse’s withers with one hand, he extended his other to her with a smile.
She slapped her hands against her hips. “Did you break in that day Wryn left?”
“I was looking for information on the Shadow Man. The latch to Wryn’s lockbox broke, and I had to cover my tracks.” He arched his eyebrows as he grinned. “Your clothes and jewels are secure in the back of the Marcellus stables if you want them back.”
“I want a good many things back from you.” Slapping her hand into his, she swung up. “And I’m holding the reins for your sorry excuse of a horse.”
As she slid one leg over the horse’s back, Marcellus placed the leather straps in her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with my horse.”
“I’ve seen ponies trot faster than your horse gallops.”
“At least it doesn’t buck me off.”
“If you knew how to ride properly, a horse wouldn’t be able to unseat you.” Squeezing her knees against the horse’s sides, she urged it through Rome’s streets.
All considering, Germanus the porter could have grumbled more when she woke him.
Gwen held the oil lamp high as Marcellus followed her into the tablinum. “Here.” She spread tablet after tablet on Father’s desk beside parchment maps.
Marcellus ran his finger over the words, but half were in Greek.
“You know, I could be wrong. Perhaps the Shadow Man’s a plebeian who hails from Greece, or a well-tutored equestrian.”
“Six months I’ve tried to trail the Shadow Man home with no success. We have to try something.”
“You said Sicily and Gaul?” Gwen extracted the tablet bearing dozens of names that she’d compiled last month.
Marcellus nodded.
As dawn’s light glimmered through the brick window, Gwen rubbed her hand over weary eyes. She held up a tablet with name after name written and scratched off. “Here’s ten I found.”
Marcellus grimaced. “Ten’s too many. I don’t have enough men to fully watch that many houses.”
“What else do you know about the Shadow Man?”
“There’s this.” Marcellus extended his hand. A gold ring glistened on his palm. “Your brother said it belongs to the Shadow Man.”
“Wonderful.” She scratched the stylus across wax as she crossed off names. “These first seven are veterans of battles or Stoics. They’d never embrace the decadence of wearing a gold ring beyond their signet rings. That leaves Senator Sulla, Praetor Octavius, and Villius Sergi.”
The edge of Marcellus’ hand touched her as he took the tablet. Heat radiated up her arm. “Thank you, Gwen.”
Taking Father’s keys, she knelt and shoved half the scrolls off the bottom shelf. Digging the metal into the box embedded in the wall, she swung the lid open and pulled out two scrolls. “Here’s the epistles of Luke and Acts, in Latin.”
Marcellus slipped the scrolls underneath his tunic. “I’ll read them.”
A smile tugged at her lips. Though, he’d said he’d do many things these last two years.
Resting on the narrow bed in the servants’ quarters, Marcellus read the last line of the scroll Gwen had given him. The oil lamp lit the page full of wondrous things. This God came to earth, helped the oppressed, looked on the needy and abused with kindness, put those conceited Pharisees in their place, even turned over tables.
Oh, the miracles. Zeus never raised people from the dead or healed leprosy, at least not that he ever had first-hand accounts of, like for this God. To willingly endure crucifixion to forge a relationship with humanity rather than demand incense and fatted calves? To give the poor and slave as much access to God as the rich and privileged? That’s the kind of god he could serve.
A line blazed from the page, white-hot. Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which spitefully use you.
As if he’d pray for Fabius. Perhaps for vengeance fire. Was that why Gwen’s father had prayed for him?
Marcellus let the scroll drop from his fingers. It clattered against the tile. He had too many patricians to kill to ever serve this kind of diety. He was starting with Fabius as soon as he caught the Shadow Man and Consul Julius gave him manumission papers.
Three long years he’d waited to do the deed. He’d not abuse Gwen’s innocent ears with it, but more had happened that day Fabius had sent his mother and all thirty other slaves to the garrison for the legal Roman penalty of execution. Mother was only thirteen when she’d given birth to him, eight years older than Caius and Fabius.
Fabius had come to the cellar where he was chained. The man had spat in his face and said, “You think you can kill your masters to prevent so little a thing as a dominus making use of your mother?”
Locked in that cellar those seven long days, he’d thought only he would forfeit his life for his offense, not everyone, not Mother. He’d kicked at Fabius with chained feet. “It was no small thing, and I prevented it.”
Fabius sneered. “You prevented nothing.” Then the man had assaulted his mother in front of him.
He would very much enjoy plunging his dagger through Fabius’ heart. So soon now. It was better Gwen knew about his slavery and her inevitable rejection had taken place. Because when he held her, all the hate that stirred his lifeblood vanished, and all he could think of was love, happiness—creating life, instead of extinguishing it.
If she hadn’t found out and Consul Julius had given him the Marcel
lus estates, who knew how long he’d have delayed the revolt? By Jupiter, he might even have contented himself with killing Fabius and after that accepted her god’s teaching on revenge. All so he’d get a lifetime with her.
He pounded his fist against the wall. See, it was much, much better she’d rejected him. So why did his heart ache from emptiness, like some sieve that hate could never fill to satisfaction again?
The smell of oyster stew she’d cooked wafted through the atrium, accompanied by the noise of many spoons clashing against bowls, just as she’d intended. Gwen hurried down an empty corridor. She twisted the handle to the room the rabble always guarded.
With the sound of racing feet, the new recruit hurled himself forward. “You can’t go in there.” His breath came in gasps.
“Why can’t I?” She jostled the locked handle.
“Marcellus!” The new recruit’s accusing voice roared through clenched teeth.
With a clatter, Marcellus rushed into the corridor. He met the new recruit’s gaze, and they exchanged a look.
“Your problem, not mine.” The new recruit stepped out of the doorway.
Marcellus moved into the space he vacated.
She glared at him. “You’re hiding something in there.”
His body relaxed as he slid his fair eyebrows up. “Isn’t my slave background, my smuggling, the fact that I’m a killer, and living under a false identity enough of a sordid reputation for you without imagining more wicked things for me to do?”
Said like that, she did sound paranoid. “If you’re not hiding something, then why won’t your men allow me in that room?”
“It’s their living quarters. They just want their privacy.” Marcellus slid his hand through the air in a casual gesture.
She furrowed her brow.
“I, on the other hand, have no desire for privacy. So, if you ever wish to invade my living quarters….” He brushed his thumb against the back of her hand.
She rolled her eyes and turned. His footsteps sounded behind her up the dead-end corridor. She glanced back.
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 29