Chapter 19
Sunlight trickled through the broad window, the breeze bearing the scent of myrtle blossoms. Gwen shook Marcellus’ shoulder. “Wake up.”
Outside, a thrush’s song rose as Marcellus opened his eyes. An intenseness burned in his gaze. Taking her hand, he placed it on his heart. “What I’d give to wake up to your face every morning.”
She blinked. “You will, of course. We’re married.”
“Of course.” A smile dropped over his pensive expression. He slid his hand over her mid-section. He kissed her cheek then the bridge of her nose. “You’re as lovely as the thrush’s song.” For a moment, he moved his face against her hair. “With the fragrance of lotus petals, the stateliness of the pine tree.”
A laugh bubbled inside her. “You’re only saying that because you’re touching me.”
“No, then I would tell you that your skin is like the finest ivory, your legs like—” He pushed up her tunica.
She grabbed his hand. “We have to leave for First Day service and a farewell meal for Eric and Cara after.”
“At your familia’s house?” He stiffened.
She nodded.
He swung his feet to the floor and reached for his sword belt. “You attend. I’m not going.”
“Marcellus!” She shoved herself up, and her loose hair fell around her, black hair contrasting with the white mattress. “I want you there.”
He rested one foot on a stool, hand on his knee. His green eyes pierced her. “I think the less I see your familia the better.”
“Why?”
He tugged his sandal laces through the holes and knotted them.
“You never say what you mean, just cryptic not-answers.”
He shrugged and tugged his other sandal on.
Scooting off the bed, she walked in front of him. “I insist you come.”
“Or, domina?” He glared like she’d made a threat. Why did the slightest things make him angry?
With a groan, she knotted her fingers around his. Leaning up, she pressed her lips to his, felt the brush of his skin against hers and reached for more. “Please come.”
“Very well.” His body tensed as if he prepared for battle.
“Don’t worry, my familia will start to like you soon enough.”
“That’s what I fear.”
What was that supposed to mean?
The Paterculi villa opened in front of them. Marcellus gripped the atrium’s doorframe. The Shadow Man and Victor had both warned him to keep his distance from the Paterculis if he valued his life. So, why did he stand within this villa?
He heard Gwen’s light footsteps tripping left toward her familia’s chambers. That’s right, because she’d pressed her soft hand into his, turned up her dark eyes, which shone like starlit nights, and told him she wanted him here. Fairly similar to the reason the Viri and Fabius both wanted him dead over Gwen.
Marcellus forced himself to take a breath. Perhaps he could find some information on the identity of the Shadow Man from garrison reports. Noiselessly, he moved to the Paterculi tablinum.
He parted the curtain. Gwen’s father knelt inside. Aquilus’ mouth moved. No shrine to Jupiter or Vesta here, the man clenched a parchment between his fingers, the Greek letters on it indecipherable to him.
“Gwen,” the man said.
What did this man tell his god about Gwen? Marcellus leaned closer.
“Be with Gwen. Keep her safe, Most High. Oh, God my Father, is she all right?” Anguish tore at Aquilus’ voice. “If Marcellus hurts her….” The man clenched his hands.
Marcellus jerked back. Aquilus Paterculi loved his daughter. Gwen had spoken the truth then. Her father wouldn’t have sold her off to Fabius. Marcellus dropped his hand. What had he done?
Gotten Gwen into a heap of trouble with no way to get her out of it, that’s what. He had to ensure she didn’t discover anything these next weeks. He’d bring down the Viri, then Consul Julius would declare him dead, and she’d be free of him, safe again. Good thing Consul Julius, like all of Rome, had a healthy fear of the Paterculis, because if word of his slavery ever got out, Gwen would never live down the infamia of sharing his bed.
“And for Marcellus.” Aquilus dug his nails into the scroll.
Marcellus froze.
“I hate him, Father, more than I’ve ever hated anyone.”
He deserved that.
“Change him. Introduce him to You. Turn that man’s heart.”
Aquilus Paterculi prayed for him. Marcellus clenched the plaster wall. What did this Jesus think of him? Gwen’s father offered no incense or sacrifices. Rather, this man talked like his God cared about him.
A hand touched his elbow. Gwen smiled at him. Sliding her hand in his, she led him to the gardens. Most of her familia already gathered there along with a hunched-back man who held a scroll.
Gwen glanced to the greenery. “Where’s everyone, Mother?”
The thud of a footfall sounded behind them. Aquilus looked to her. “I told you, Gwen, many do not wish their face seen by a stranger.”
“What about First Day service?” Disappointment filled Gwen’s eyes. Marcellus’ heart pinched. Something else he’d ruined for her.
“They met at another place,” Wryn said from the other side of the garden.
“And Aulia?” Gwen fluttered her long eyelashes up.
Aquilus shook his head. “Don’t say their names.”
Made sense. If one desired to follow a religion one could get crucified for, one should guard that secret well. “And you?” Marcellus glanced to the hunched man who lacked half his teeth. “Missed the memorandum that a deadly traitor entered your midst today?”
The man narrowed his clear eyes. “My back’s marked from floggings I’ve received for this good news. I’ve got bite marks from wild animals.” He held up his arm. Jagged scars marked his fragile skin. “Been left for dead before. If I perish in pursuit of teaching the gospel to a stranger this day, so be it.”
Marcellus nodded. He could respect the man’s passion anyway. Wait, teach? He could get crucified for listening to this.
“Sit.” The man motioned to a bench surrounded by towering bushes. High brick walls blocked any prying eyes.
Marcellus sat. Gwen slid in beside him, so close her body touched his chest. She nestled against his shoulder. Aquilus’ dark-eyed gaze followed the movement, concern etched across his brow.
He’d protect Gwen the best he could these next two months before Consul Julius forced him to leave her and Gwen returned here. He promised that. Marcellus touched Gwen’s hand as he met her father’s gaze.
The hunched man coughed. “Our reading is from the book of John.”
“Here.” Gwen shoved an unintelligible Greek scroll at him.
The hunched man’s voice rose and fell, telling of one God, the Creator of all who took on the form of a man and walked the earth performing great miracles. Then this God, Jesus, rode into the city of Jerusalem on a donkey and traitors among his own countrymen handed him over to the Roman pigs. The Romans beat him, pierced his brow with thorns, and stripped him as naked as a slave in preparation for crucifixion.
Marcellus shifted on the marble. “If this Jesus was God of all, why didn’t he send down heavenly messengers to obliterate the Romans?” Perhaps take over the Rome Empire too, destroy the emperor, and set up a righteous throne in the imperial palace. He’d follow that kind of god.
“Jesus wished to die,” the hunched man said.
“Why?” On a cross of all places. A cold chill ran down Marcellus’ back. Would Consul Julius crucify him if he failed to catch the Shadow Man?
The hunched man raised frail hands. “Only the blood of the Creator of the world could atone for mankind’s sin.”
“Oh.” A cypress frond poked Marcellus in the back.
“To receive that sacrifice for our sins, we need only accept Jesus as our Lord and master. If you are ready to receive this gift—”
“I need no master.” H
e should get out of here before the Viri heard of this clandestine meeting. With how much secrecy surrounded this service, the Shadow Man would assume he shared information about smuggling.
Behind the bench, Gwen’s little brother elbowed her. “The scriptures say not to marry someone who doesn’t follow the Way.” Paulus crossed his boyish arms as his dog licked the remains of breakfast off his tunic. “I read it myself.”
Gwen squirmed beside him. She lowered her voice. “Marcellus will convert soon enough.”
Turning, Marcellus tipped his head to stare at her. Did Gwen have many such over-confident plans for him?
“Shall we eat here in the gardens?” Gwen’s mother bore a tray of steaming rolls.
The Paterculis gathered on blankets on the ground, serving themselves from the trays as at-ease as a plebeian familia.
Gwen dug her teeth into a grape and its dark juice squirted. She leaned left to where Cara sat cross-legged on a blanket. “Any small brother or sister for our little Lucia in the making?”
Cara groaned. “Don’t wish that upon me yet.”
“Why not?” Gwen licked the sweetness of grape nectar off the tip of her thumb, her tongue almost as vivid red as her lips.
“Lucia finally sleeps the night.” Cara broke off a bit of roll and handed it to the baby. “A year, and at last, my head hits the coverlet and I don’t hear the screams of a babe until dawn’s light.”
Gwen shrugged. “I want seven sons and three daughters myself.” A laugh in her eyes, she turned to him. “What about you, Marcellus?”
Hand on a roll, Marcellus stiffened. The bread squished beneath his clenched fingers. A child? A child who bore his face, who he’d have to abandon before it was even born. Just what he swore he’d never do. Just what the man whose seed had given him life had done to him.
Unlike him, the child wouldn’t be born a slave. With him declared dead, Gwen would re-marry, and his child would have a true patrician father.
“How many, Marcellus?” She leaned forward, a dare in her eyes as she faced down her eldest brother’s disapproving gaze.
“‘Tis not the time to speak of it.” Marcellus dropped the flattened roll on the plate as all desire for food left him.
“When is the time to speak of it?” She brushed her fingers against the back of his hand, a playful smile on her lips.
Never. If he had the coin to buy enough incense and animal sacrifices to make Jupiter or any of the gods listen, he’d offer to them all right now, begging that no child came from this two-month union. Strange that this Jesus offered his own life as a sacrifice rather than requesting sacrifices like the other gods.
“You haven’t answered me.” Gwen touched his knee, her dark eyes sparkling.
He was Marcellus, the man with a reputation for blithe indifference and tonight, after Gwen slept, once again he’d risk his life on the proposition that the Viri couldn’t see through that reputation or glimpse the scars that marked him as no patrician war hero, but a slave.
Dropping his voice, Marcellus leaned closer to her. “Because all the answers I have are much too inappropriate to state before your kin.”
Gwen laughed, and she shouldn’t have. She had a good familia, one of the rare ones, and she’d traded it for him.
The afternoon shadows lengthened as Gwen lingered with her familia over this farewell meal. Holding Lucia’s little hand, Gwen pointed to a hyacinth blossom. Lucia wrapped her chubby fist around the stalk.
“How are you?” Mother touched her shoulder.
“Wondrous.” Dropping Lucia’s hand, Gwen stood and smiled. If she weren't, she’d certainly not tell her familia. Why did Marcellus have lash marks on his back? Had he truly been home with her that night?
Mother dropped her voice, concern in her blue eyes. “Marcellus, marriage to him?”
He’d yelled at her at the Ocelli dinner party, and his moods switched course as unpredictably as an ocean breeze. After she’d run off with him, though, she could scarcely admit that. “Perfect, Mother.” Taking two strides to where Marcellus sat, she leaned over his shoulder and pressed her lips to his mouth.
Mother fell back as Marcellus twisted his gaze to her. Wryn directed glares over the top of the parchment he spread over his legs. More tribune work, no doubt. From his seat in the grass by Cara, Eric looked ready to throw one of those pentathlon javelins he was so skilled with. Even Cara shot a disapproving stare Marcellus’ way.
Gwen pressed her lips together. It’s not as if Eric had asked for their blessing when choosing Cara, but she’d invited Eric’s wife into the familia with open arms. Now no one could accept the husband she’d chosen?
“Any word on the praetor position you wanted, Wryn?” Hand on Marcellus’ shoulder, she circled to the front of his bench.
Wryn grunted. “Didn’t get it, so it’s back to Moesia.”
If Eric and Wryn wished to stare, she’d give them something to stare at. “Why have you never taken another political appointment, Marcellus?” She sat on Marcellus’ legs, her shoulders pressed up against his chest. “You were already tribune in Dacia, so you have the experience.”
“Nothing came up.” He slid her off his lap and onto the bench beside him as his gaze moved to her father. Since when did Marcellus care about inviting her familia’s displeasure?
“Father would help you. Wouldn’t you, Papa?”
Father already focused his gaze on Marcellus.
“No.” Marcellus’ voice thudded like a cymbal.
Oh. Gwen dropped her gaze. That was a dreadfully important line on her list. Because without him holding a military or political assignment, how would she have the access she needed to catch the smugglers before Wryn did?
Lucia scurried in their direction on all fours. Grabbing Marcellus’ leg, she pulled herself to a stand.
His tanned hand touched the baby’s pale one.
“Up,” the baby babbled. Marcellus’ gaze flashed to Eric.
Eric groaned. “If you drop her….”
Cara touched Eric’s hand. “I’m sure Marcellus is capable of not dropping a child.”
“Capable, sure.” Eric crossed his big arms over each other. “Unless he purposes to.”
“Eric!” Gwen scooped up Lucia. “Wryn’s the one who dropped your child, not Marcellus.” The carpenter’s baby with the rash had stopped wailing and cooed when Marcellus held her, his callused hands so gentle against the baby’s frail body.
“False.” Wryn raised one hand. “I only almost dropped her. And she was smaller and squirmier.”
“See,” Gwen stood Lucia on her lap and the girl’s little dress blew in the wind, “Marcellus never almost dropped a child.”
Lucia extended her hands toward Marcellus. He reached his finger out and she gripped it.
“It’s your fault, Gwen.” Wryn dropped his parchment. “You forced me to hold Lucia. I had the sense to know I should leave well enough alone.”
Lucia grabbed Marcellus’ tunic. He opened both hands in front of her. A carved bit of wood in the shape of a woman sat in his hand. Lucia grabbed for it and sank her teeth into the soft wood.
“Where did you get that?” Gwen ran her finger down the smooth wood.
“I made it.”
The doll’s carved hair was flawless down to her pinned-up curls and angled eyebrows. The curve of those lips looked familiar. “Did you carve me?”
Marcellus’ cheekbones turned red. “Perhaps.”
Squeezing the figurine between chubby fists, Lucia scooted to the edge of the bench. Gwen swung her down and stood. Crossing to where Wryn sat, she knelt and grabbed another roll. “How’s tracking the Viri?”
Wryn shook his head.
With a groan, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “You don’t still think Marcellus is a smuggler, do you? He’s your brother by marriage.”
Wryn grated his teeth against each other. “Not through any choice of mine.”
“Wryn!”
Hand on his bench, Wryn leaned close to her
ear. “If you ever find evidence he’s involved with the Viri, you’d tell me?”
“What do you mean evidence?” She jumped to her feet. “He’s not. I trust Marcellus.” Mostly. Many times in Britannia when Wryn had come home swearing Marcellus had met the Viri, she knew he hadn’t because he’d spent those evenings with her.
“Two nights ago, Roman legionaries captured what I believe to be a Viri shipment. Did Marcellus do anything suspicious that night?”
The night she could have sworn Marcellus wasn’t home in bed. “You just disagree with my choice to defy Roman tradition, so you’re prejudiced against my husband. You have no proof Marcellus is a smuggler.”
Shifting back on the bench, Wryn caught up his scroll. “I haven’t said a word, but that doesn’t mean my opinion of him has changed one iota.”
Gwen sighed. Could Marcellus have met smugglers that night? He was friends with Victor Ocelli.
Chapter 20
The fragrance of hyacinths rose from the purple-edged path. Gwen took a seat beside Aulia on the garden bench in the Cornelii peristyle. Gwen looked to Claudia. “How many days until your father intends to marry you off to that brute, Atilius? You should run away.”
Little Drusa skipped after a butterfly as Livia adjusted her son’s sleeping form. “Claudia’s betrothed to Fabius now.”
“What?”
“After you ran off with Marcellus, Fabius Agricola offered for me.” Claudia plucked a rose blossom and stuck it behind her ear. “Fabius is much better connected than Atilius, so my father swiftly changed course.”
Gwen struck her hand against her forehead. “Fabius is even worse than that other brute your father picked.”
Claudia jutted out her shoulders, and her ball of wool rolled to the brick. “Fabius is handsome.”
“And a lecher and violent.” Gwen raised both hands. “My father’s investigator discovered he beat a slave to death.”
“All things I could say of your husband. Didn’t he kill a hundred slaves in retaliation for one killing his father?” Claudia kicked the ball of wool.
That story about Marcellus couldn’t be true. “You’re telling me you’re pleased with your father’s choice?”
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 20
