To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3

by Anne Garboczi Evans

Slipping onto the dining couch by Cara, Gwen scooped the baby up. She leaned over the baby. “Say Ga-Ga-Gwen.”

  Lucia clapped her hands.

  Crossing her knees, Gwen drew the child into her lap. Leaning over Lucia, Gwen tickled her round belly. Lucia giggled.

  “The dinner grows cold, domina.” In the doorway, the cook, whose rosy cheeks belied her iron-willed opinions, bowed.

  “And you labored hard over it.” Mother nodded to the rest. “Shall we return to eating?”

  Cara’s marriage stola fell elegantly over her tunica. “I’ve missed you, Gwen.”

  Marcellus took a stride toward Gwen.

  Wryn rose, his body blocking Marcellus’ approach.

  Foot thudding against the tile floor, Marcellus took another step.

  Wryn touched his knife.

  “Gwen.” With a smile, Marcellus held his hand out to her even as her familia’s gazes pierced her.

  She hadn’t even done anything beyond kissing Marcellus yet, but under those penetrating gazes, her face flamed as hot as if she’d taken part in a Saturnalia orgy. “I’ll just sit here with Lucia and Cara.”

  “No.” Marcellus’ voice, and now she needed the floor to open up.

  She slid a handbreadth back on the red cushions and glanced to Eric, who stood behind the couch. “I wouldn’t wish to take your space.”

  Eric clenched his teeth. “I don’t mind.”

  Every pair of eyes in the room bore into her. Silence bounced off the long couches, then against the ceiling above lit candles, ricocheting back against the couch Marcellus stood by.

  She touched her sandal to the tile. The noise crashed through the room.

  Thud, thud, thud, each of the three steps to Marcellus’ couch stretched a lifetime as her familia’s gazes cleaved to her marrow. She lay on his couch. He lay down beside her, his chest almost touching her head.

  The silence broke as people reached for dishes and spoons clinked against plates.

  Marcellus reached over her for a leg of meat. His elbow touched her chest. She stiffened.

  Leaning down, he let his breath just brush her ear, the noise of laughter in his voice. “Wretchedly stiff dinner, don’t you think? We could sneak out to the hedges. Surely the famed Paterculi estates have some of those?”

  Despite his earlier actions, she could barely keep her chest from shaking with laughter. She rolled back against him and forced her eyes to narrow. “It’s only stiff because of how you acted. You promised to behave yourself.”

  “I remember no such promise.” His green eyes glinted by lamplight. In the space between her body and his, apart from prying eyes, he moved his fingers down her leg.

  “You can promise now.” She reached behind her and removed his hand. Only with her movement, now his arm stretched over her waist, his fingers that she clenched so close to her stomach.

  “Promise, delicia.” He drew her back against his chest. Every pair of eyes in the room took note of it.

  Still, today was their wedding day. Of all the things he’d done in front of her familia thus far, this was the least inappropriate. She reached for a handful of figs.

  No one spoke.

  “What are you planning to see on your first trip to Greece, Cara?” As Gwen turned, her head touched Marcellus’ shoulder. Greece always loosened Cara’s tongue.

  “Many things.” Cara placed a cut grape in Lucia’s mouth.

  Gwen poked at a fig. “Make sure Eric shows you the Parthenon.”

  “All right.”

  Monosyllables! Cara could wax eloquent for hours on Greece.

  Not even chewing interrupted the all-encompassing silence or intensifying gazes. Gwen squirmed on the slick cushions.

  Marcellus held himself up on his elbow. He looked at Eric. “Lucia’s grown since I saw her last.”

  “Yes. She has.” Eric dug his knife into a piece of meat, severing a tendon.

  After Marcellus spoke, a few members of her familia dug utensils into food, and the sound of knives against bronze plates somewhat dulled the silence.

  “Marcellus said he’d come to First Day services this week.” Gwen’s voice cut through the air. Actually, she hadn’t asked him yet. He would, though.

  “Gwen.” Father twisted. “That’s not wise.”

  Fork suspended over an egg, Gwen stared at him. “What do you think Marcellus is going to do, report us to the authorities for execution?”

  Her familia exchanged glances. That is exactly what they thought Marcellus would do!

  Gwen dropped the fork, and it clattered. “Truly, Father.”

  “The others,” Father said, “they may not wish their faces seen by a stranger. You know what happened last month.”

  A dozen followers of the Way fed to the lions. Gwen winced.

  Marcellus twisted on his elbow, his gaze directed to Father. “I see no reason why the state should outlaw any people’s gods. Everyone knows Emperor Caligula’s no deity. So why crucify followers of this Christus for refusing to burn incense in honor of the imperial cult?”

  Uneasy glances passed between her familia, but naught more was said of refusing her husband entrance to First Day services in this domus.

  When the distraction of food had disappeared, her familia moved into the peristyle overlooking the garden. A light breeze blew through myrtle branches as Paulus’ dog ran circles in the courtyard.

  A pace apart, Gwen looked over the darkened garden paths she’d walked only yesterday.

  “Here.” Wryn pressed something into her hand. “I should have given it to you at first, instead of making you steal it.”

  Gwen glanced down. Wryn’s gladius glinted in the candlelight. “You keep it. I only stole it to irritate you. And I’m sorry.”

  “No, you obviously have more need of it than I.” Wryn pressed her fingers around the hilt. His black eyes had a strange glint.

  “Thank you.” Maybe. It almost seemed as if Wryn suggested....

  Eric touched her shoulder.

  She turned. He held out a cloth-covered shaft.

  “What’s this?” Gwen smiled.

  “A wedding gift.” Ripping off the cloth, Eric pressed a sharpened javelin into her hands. No one could best Eric at the javelin throw. Someday he’d compete in the Olympic Games.

  Gwen tilted her chin. “You know women aren’t allowed to compete in the pentathlon.”

  “The pentathlon javelins don’t have a metal head.” Eric’s gaze had the same glint as Wryn’s.

  “Uh, thank you.” Gwen stifled a groan. One didn’t need the wits of Socrates to piece together what her brothers suggested.

  “We don’t leave for Greece until next week, so if you want me to teach you how to throw it—”

  “Uh-huh.” Gwen rested the javelin against a marble pillar.

  “A wedding gift for you.” Mother pressed a wrapped package into her hands.

  Dare she hope for a tapestry for her new home? Gwen flicked the wrapping open to reveal the glint of a steel blade with Celtic runes engraved on it. She tucked the package under her arm. “Thank you, Mother.”

  Father stepped in front of her, his back blocking Marcellus, who stood on the other side of the peristyle in conversation with Paulus. Father cleared his throat. “I know you’re contented at present, Gwen, but it’s important to prepare for the future.”

  “Um….” Gwen searched Father’s gaze.

  “Here’s a parchment.” Father thrust a scroll into her hands. “If you ever decide you need it, you can sign, and everything reverts.”

  She glanced at the ink. “Father! I’m not taking divorce papers.”

  “I feared that.” He sighed. “Here’s your wedding gift then.” Bending, he handed her a box.

  The heavy crate weighed down her arms. “What is it?”

  “Those dozen knives you requested.”

  With a sigh, Gwen dropped the box by the javelin and gladius.

  Slobbery dog in tow, Paulus hurtled closer. “I made this for you because you marri
ed.” He shoved a parchment into her hand.

  She flicked her gaze to four evenly-spaced lines. “A poem. How delightful.” She hugged her little brother close while directing a severe stare at her other two brothers.

  A hand brushed her back. Marcellus. Leaning over her shoulder, Marcellus touched the parchment ink. He started reading.

  You promised me you wouldn’t marry,

  Yet you married him,

  I hate him more than Fabius,

  And now the world will end.

  The parchment fell from Gwen’s fingers. Wafting on the spring breeze, it floated down to the stones.

  Marcellus wrapped his arm around her as a smirk came to his voice. “You clearly are inspired by the muses, Paulus.”

  “It’s time to leave.” Gwen sidestepped to stand beside Marcellus rather than in the circle of his arms. She touched the ever-growing pile of weaponry with her toe as she looked to her familia, Lucia the only ally among them. “I’ll let you send someone to deliver the wedding gifts.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening.” Marcellus inclined his head. “Legate, Domina, Tribune, Eric, Cara.” Sliding his hand around her waist, he tugged her next to him. He pressed his mouth down over hers. No brush of lips either, his tongue touched hers. Her familia’s looks possessed the lethality of Medusa.

  Stepping back, Gwen grabbed Marcellus’ hand. “They really are going to stab you between the ribs.” If she didn’t do it first.

  As they moved to the street beyond, he touched his mouth to her ear. “Only if they’re quicker with their blades than I am with mine.”

  She groaned. “If my familia never speaks to me again, it’s your fault.”

  “Ah, but at least you’re happy to come home with me. Unlike if I’d let well enough alone and your father sold you off to Fabius.”

  “I don’t know where you got that crazed notion.”

  “You said it yourself to Fabius, and it’s how patrician fathers are. My sister….” Marcellus’ fingers constricted over his knife.

  Marcellus had overheard. Gwen looked into the dark streets. “I lied to Fabius because I wanted the pleasure of seeing my Father throw him out. My father hired a private investigator to research the morals of any man who asked for me. He’d never have accepted Fabius.”

  Marcellus narrowed his eyes. “Easy enough to say, but your father may have changed his mind in the face of the political connections.”

  “No. Father only wished me happy.”

  “Oh.” Marcellus sounded only partially convinced. He took another step. “I’m sorry I pressed the bounds of propriety then.”

  “Pressed the bounds? More like threw them off a cliff to shatter into a thousand pieces. You should be sorry.”

  “So very, thoroughly sorry.” He touched his mouth to hers. “Your familia’s not here now.” He slid his hand around her waist.

  “We’re in the middle of a street. A dark street. With criminals.” She gestured to shadowy buildings and the hurried rush of rough-looking men who scurried along the edges of the road.

  “Won’t be for much longer.” He hooked his finger in her belt.

  She groaned, but his hand felt delightfully warm on her waist. She’d save the knife-throwing for another day.

  Chapter 15

  The moon lit the cobblestones of the Marcellus villa. The scent of lotus blossoms wafted on the breeze as Marcellus walked, his arm around Gwen’s waist, the Paterculi dinner left far behind.

  The pale light reflected off her skin, her face as radiant as the moon, and she walked with him. The door creaked beneath his hand. One oil lamp flickered.

  “I’m so weary.” Gwen collapsed on a couch.

  “Long day.” A long night yet too with the Viri to meet. The cushion sank as he sat beside her.

  She rested her head against his shoulder. The scent of her perfume spread about him, her hair flattening against his chest. The lamp illuminated her beautiful face. Gwen’s eyes drooped shut.

  Standing, he slid his hands beneath her legs and shoulders.

  “I’m too heavy for you.”

  “No, you’re not.” He held her close as he strode to the bedchamber.

  She burrowed her head against his shoulder, so at ease in his arms. She’d let him kiss her in her father’s house as if he too were some patrician, master of the world.

  In far too few weeks, Consul Julius would force him to abandon her. What would life be without Gwen? Pain stabbed his heart. He clenched his teeth.

  She’d be better off without him. He shouldn’t have disrespected her wishes tonight at her familia’s house.

  When they arrived at the patrician villa, and he saw the smug faces of men who commanded the armies of Rome—men like the Roman soldier who had killed his mother’s family and sold her into slavery, caused him to be born a slave—anger had flamed his veins. The legate had hurt Gwen too thinking to sell her off to Fabius and making her cry with his harsh words this morn. So, he’d struck back against the legate and won. Yet, he’d hurt Gwen too.

  He kicked the bedchamber door. It swung open with a creak then shut behind them.

  How long could he delay catching the Shadow Man without bringing down Fabius’ wrath? Also, every time he met the Viri, he risked discovery, and he’d pay with his life if they ever realized he was no Caius Marcellus, but a slave.

  Lowering his arms, he laid her on the bed. With a sigh, she burrowed into the well of softness, but she didn’t open her eyes.

  Bending, he tugged at the knot in her sandal laces. The sandals came off in his hand revealing ivory feet, so delicate even when caked with dirt.

  Moving to the wash basin on the cabinet, he dunked a striped cloth. He wrung the cloth between his hands, just like how many thousands of times before?

  Taking hold of her shapely ankle, he ran the damp fabric across the instep of her foot, cleaning away the filth. He shifted his hand up her tunica, touching her calf now as he wiped the cloth across her other foot.

  Why had he done that?

  He hurled the cloth. In this very room, three years ago, he swore he’d never wash a patrician’s feet again. When he swore it, he’d struck the master across the face. He’d like to strike a patrician now. Or knife one.

  “Marcellus.” Gwen raised her sleep-filled voice over the covers.

  “What?” He glared out the darkened window.

  Sitting, she caught his hand and tugged at his arm.

  He let one knee touch the mattress.

  She pulled his arm over her chest and nestled back against him, every curve of hers underneath his hands.

  This clean patrician girl trusted him. He didn’t trust himself to always remember she was Gwen and not a hated domina like the others who lived in these four walls when he dwelled here years ago as a slave.

  When Gwen’s breathing slowed in sleep, Marcellus dragged himself up and passed through the atrium.

  A cloud had moved over the moon and darkness shrouded the courtyard outside. The rabble lined the hedges, weapons in their hands.

  Marcellus strode over cracked cobblestones. “Why are you all here?”

  “To go with you, of course.” Bruno fingered his knife hilt. “This time, we’ll catch the Shadow Man.”

  “The consul gave me two months. We needn’t catch him tonight.” If the Shadow Man even came tonight. Hopefully, he didn’t, because the Shadow Man had given him until next meeting to kill Gwen.

  “This is about your girl, isn’t it?” Bruno leaned on a long staff. “You’re delaying catching the Shadow Man and starting our slave revolt to give yourself more time with her.”

  Yes.

  The new recruit kicked a root. “We have centuries of oppression to overthrow. This isn’t about one girl setting your heart aflutter.”

  Marcellus gave himself a shake. Bruno spoke truth, of course.

  “We’re coming.” Androkles unsheathed his sword.

  “Take care then. Fabius’ men are intercepting the shipment tonight.”

>   The rabble nodded. Their heavy footsteps sounded across the courtyard.

  Marcellus motioned to the villa. “Half of you stay and guard Gwen.”

  The men groaned, but they followed his order.

  A sliver of moon lit the riverbank as the first watch of the night slid into the second. Marcellus strained his ears as Victor, Cato, and the Viri men pounded up the gangway to the boat.

  As with all garrison raids, if the legionaries Fabius had sent came too soon and arrested him, he’d lose the Shadow Man’s trust. Then the consul would have no further use for him, which meant back to the chains of slavery.

  Marcellus strained his eyes. A flicker of something lit the edge of the river. “Roman legionaries!”

  “Quick.” Victor motioned to the chained prisoners emerging from the hull. “Take what you can and leave.”

  Take what you can? As if the slave were cattle. Fabius would at least free the unlawfully imprisoned slaves. “No,” Marcellus yelled. “Flee! Your life’s worth more than a slave.” The Viri men obeyed him.

  Their feet pounded against dirt as the Viri men dispersed. Victor swung on his horse. “Good call. You always spot the legionaries first.”

  Cato twitched his thin nose, a suspicious gaze in his narrow eyes.

  Marcellus grabbed the reins of his own horse and scrambled up. The horse’s uneven footsteps still made balance hard even after a year. He dug his knees into the horse’s sides as if he’d grown up on horseback, like a patrician.

  “I rounded up a dozen ship captains that failed this month. The Shadow Man wishes to see them, then you can kill them for me.” Victor drove his horse east.

  The Shadow Man? Marcellus’ heart dropped. He thought he had three more weeks until that lethal confrontation. And a dozen? If he survived this next half-hour, how would he take that many men to Consul Julius? “Where do we meet the Shadow Man?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Hopefully, his rabble could keep up without horses. The only reason he had this horse was because the consul had finally realized that not having a horse could expose him. He had no coin for extra horses.

  Victor pulled his horse into an olive grove at last. Throwing his horse’s reins over a branch, Marcellus swung down and entered through the dense grove.