Chapter 24
Seven Hours Later
Gwen threw another log on the kitchen fire. Grabbing the cauldron handle, she heaved it to the fireplace hook.
“What you doin’?” Petiphor stuck his small head around the corner. He looked like he was a few years older than Paulus but skinnier.
“Making food.” The cook’s daughter had sickened, so she’d given her the afternoon off. Whipping a towel off the rising dough, Gwen tore off pieces for rolls.
Sniffing eagerly, Petiphor drew closer.
“You can chop the leeks.” Gwen shoved a bowl of vegetables toward him with her elbow.
“I don’t like leeks.”
“You will after I cook them.” Opening the bee-shaped oven, Gwen placed the rolls on the clay.
Lifting a cleaver up, Petiphor chopped it down against the leeks. “I like you, even though Androkles says you’re pretentious.”
“Is that what Androkles says?” Gwen opened a canister of lentils and scooped heaping spoonfuls into the now-bubbling cauldron.
“The new recruit claims you’ve bewitched Marcellus with some sorceress spell. Bruno says it doesn’t take sorcery when a woman’s as ravishing as you.”
“Oh, does he?” Tightening her lips, Gwen threw basil and bay into the pot. The long-handled spoon fit into a familiar spot at the base of her thumb as she stirred.
“You are comely.” The boy grinned at her.
Taking Petiphor’s leeks, she dumped them in the pottage. “What does Marcellus say of me?” She would investigate those rumors despite the disaster that was last night.
The boy stiffened. “That’s a conversation you should have with Marcellus.”
“Who told you to say that? Those are the exact same words Androkles spoke!”
“Marcellus’ orders.” Petiphor hopped off his stool and sniffed. “Can I have some bread?”
Oh, she could strangle Marcellus. She would, too, if she discovered any truth in those marketplace rumors, but Marcellus swore the rumors weren’t true.
Gwen’s lip quivered.
“Smells good in here.” One of the rabble stuck his head around the kitchen door. Seeing her, he jolted back. His head slammed against the plaster wall.
Merely the fact that she was an influential patrician and this man a freed slave from the look of the tattoo extending down his arm, did not make her pretentious. Regardless of Androkles’ thoughts on the matter. “Have some.” With a smile, Gwen dished lentil pottage into a bowl. She took a steaming roll from the clay oven and placed it on the rim of the bowl. “Here.”
A curious light shone in the man’s eyes even as he lowered his gaze. “My thanks, domina.” Retreating, he sat on one of the long benches by the kitchen wall.
The stomp of heavy feet rounded the edge of the entranceway. Sweaty tunics clung to the rabbles’ chests, the handles of their gladii slick from training. Androkles led the group. When he saw her, his feet thudded to a halt.
“Here, Androkles.” Gwen stared right into his broad face as she dipped pottage into a bowl. “Eat.” She shoved the bowl into his hands.
He dropped his gaze. “My thanks.”
Good. Let him reconsider calling her pretentious. Seizing the ladle, she dished one bowl after another and handed them to the men along with grapes and walnuts and the steaming rolls.
The new recruit glared at her as he took his bowl.
Sorcery indeed. If she could avail herself of sorcery, she’d know why Marcellus left at night.
The rabble sat on the long benches and shoveled food into their mouths, but no one spoke.
Taking her own bowl, Gwen sat on a little bench across from them. “So, Tarbus—”
Another footstep sounded. Marcellus. His plain tunic wrinkled at his shoulders as if he’d just risen from bed. He’d been gone all night if he’d slept until now.
Gwen narrowed her eyes.
His green-eyed gaze settled on her, a smile on his flawless lips. Even mussed from sleep, his tunic couldn’t hide his broad shoulders or those arms a woman could melt into. “The aroma of your cooking has filled the entire villa, delicia.”
“Eat then, if you must.” She stabbed a finger to the cauldron and stayed firmly planted on the bench. Refusing to serve him, her husband, was an insult indeed, especially since she’d served each of his men, which as domina she shouldn’t have. She pressed her elbows against her sides.
Marcellus merely glanced to the empty seat by her, then turned and picked up a bowl. Ecce, this is why she’d fallen in love with him.
Did he love her so little as to not stay true to her for even a month? Her chest tightened. “Petiphor, sit down.” Gwen patted the knothole beside her.
Taking his nose out of the oven, Petiphor brought the half dozen rolls he’d already managed to stuff in his arms. Sitting by her, he crammed two in his mouth.
Steam rose from the bowl in Marcellus’ hands as he crossed the room. His green-eyed gaze locked on her. She sat straighter on her already-full bench as Petiphor crammed a third roll into his mouth. “Petiphor, you really mustn’t eat so fast. You’ll get indigestion.”
“My seat, boy.” Marcellus jostled Petiphor’s shoulder.
The lad scurried across to the rabble’s benches. Marcellus’ weight shifted her bench. His shoulder almost brushed her he sat so close.
One of the rabble raised his spoon high. “Choice soup, domina.”
Marcellus rested his hand on her side of the bench, his arm crossing behind her back. His breath brushed her ear as he leaned closer. “But not as choice as its cook, delicia.”
Her heart tumbled over itself. The heat of his bare arm sent tingles across her back.
He held the soup bowl with his knees as he dipped his spoon in.
Yet he’d disappeared all night. And he’d given her no cause to trust him.
A footstep sounded in the entrance. Bruno walked in and glanced at her husband. “Marcellus, there’s a man at the gate, John Spiros. He wishes to see the domina.”
Gwen’s sandal clattered against the tile as she sprang from Marcellus’ arm. “Tell John I’ll see him in the sitting room.”
Marcellus snagged her hand. “What do you plan to talk to John about?”
“It’s no concern of yours.”
“I’ll come with you.” Marcellus stood.
“No, you won’t.”
Marcellus opened his mouth.
“He’s my friend. I seem to remember you having quite a few rules about your friend, Cato.” She pried at his fingers.
He tightened his grip. “That was different. I don’t want you to—”
“You’ll let me speak to who I wish. Or would you prefer a divorce?” She fixed her gaze on him, forcing her jaw and heart to harden. Still, the words seared through her like a knife stab.
Marcellus dropped his hand from her.
Her feet clicked against the atrium tile. She pushed back a striped curtain she’d hemmed. John stood inside the sitting room.
“Gwen.” John nodded to her. “Wryn asked me to check on you now that your familia’s gone.”
Gone so very far from Rome, and her here alone with Marcellus. A tear slipped down her cheek. She jammed her thumb against it.
“You’re crying, Gwen.”
She shook her head.
John’s sandal clapped the tile as he advanced. “What did Marcellus do?”
“If I tell you the truth, will you run to Wryn or my father and tell?” She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Of all the people left in Rome, she trusted John the most. Unlike Aulia or Claudia, he had skill with a knife.
“I should.” He drew his eyebrows down in an unimpressed line.
“If you do, I won’t tell you anything.” She clasped both hands together, pleading.
“Should I be worried about you, Gwen?”
She dropped her hands. “You already are, or you wouldn’t be here.”
He groaned. “Wryn thinks Marcellus is a smuggler.”
&n
bsp; “I’m more concerned he has another woman.” Or women. “He leaves at night with no explanation.”
“With his reputation, this is a surprise to you?” John rolled his gaze to the stucco ceiling.
At least John didn’t have a knife buried hilt deep between Marcellus’ ribs, which is what Wryn would have done by now. Gwen grabbed John’s hand. “Swear you won’t tell my familia until I get some answers.”
With a sigh, John focused his gaze on her. “How do you intend to get answers?”
She glanced out the window to lengthening shadows. “This evening, I’m going to track down the rumors I heard in the marketplace.”
“On the streets, alone?”
That hadn’t gone so well last night, and darkness would soon cover the city. She chafed one hand over the other. “I’m good with a knife.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Gratias.” A wan smile tugged her lips. “Perhaps it’s nothing. My worry running away with me.”
“If he’s not leaving in the watches of the night for women, he’s leaving to smuggle. Perhaps both.”
Both? Either option was horrid enough. “Or neither.”
John cocked one cynical eyebrow.
“He’s not a smuggler. I know him well.” Marcellus had served Rome nobly on the Dacian battlefields. A man didn’t risk his life for his emperor one moment and turn his back on Rome the next. Which left women. Her heart sank.
“Obviously not as well as you thought when you ran off with him.” Was that condemnation in John’s eyes?
She squirmed. Also, if Marcellus really had fought in Dacia, why did no spear slash or sword cut scar his body? “You don’t have to get involved.”
Another groan escaped John’s mouth. “I promised Wryn I’d look after you since your husband’s clearly unwilling to do so.”
Why had she thought John less annoying than Wryn?
“When are you leaving for this mad scheme?”
“Now.”
“Why now? It’s almost nightfall when the most dangerous elements of the city wander the streets.”
Her voice fell. “One of the places I want to investigate is a… brothel.”
A noise of disgust slid through John’s teeth. “Even patrician men with no morals don’t frequent low-class places like that. Enough slaves and mistresses exist to….”
Her cheeks heated to burning.
“Anyway, what about forgetting the investigating and divorcing him?” John pierced her with his gaze.
She squirmed. “You don’t have to come with me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Afternoon light turned to dusk by the time John and Gwen reached the Aventine district. She rapped her fist against Flora the weaver’s door.
A woman with a baby yanked the panel open.
Gwen looked her in the eye. “You claimed Marcellus as the child of your babe.”
“No, I didn’t.” Flora rested one hand on her hip. “Though women like you will judge no matter what man I name as father.”
Gwen threw her arms around the woman.
The woman drew back. “What?”
“I’m his wife.”
“Oh.” The woman jounced the baby. “I never even met him but once. Marcellus gave me bread one day last winter when I was nigh on starving, but you know how gossip grows.”
From the look of the hovel, Flora wasn’t far from starving still. “Here.” Gwen pressed a few coins into her hand. “If you need work, I own a fuller’s shop.”
The woman grabbed the coins, then snorted. “I wouldn’t put a smile on your lips so fast, domina. Priscilla the baker’s daughter, the midwife two streets down—” Flora rattled off names. “All claimed a relationship with him, to name the first dozen.”
Feet shifted behind her in loose earth. John. Gwen cringed. Flora slammed the door.
John rubbed his hand over his forehead. “This is going to take all night, isn’t it?”
“You don’t have to come.”
“Gwen, I know you never thought me man enough for you, but give my manhood some credit. I’m not about to leave a woman alone in this section of Rome.”
“Oh.” Gwen swallowed. A guilty feeling twisted inside of her. She truly shouldn’t have kissed him just to cover up Marcellus’ actions. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”
Darkness fell over narrow streets. She rapped her fist against a door. It swung open. “Marcellus, what do you know of him?”
“Who’s asking?” A woman clutched a suckling baby.
“Someone who wants the truth.” Gwen flashed the coins in her palm.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “All right, but you mustn’t repeat it.”
Gwen tilted her head. “Very well.”
“I’ve never met Marcellus in my life, but the actual father of my child is married, so I spread that rumor. You won’t tell.”
With a groan, Gwen handed her the money. “No, I won’t tell.”
A watch and a half of the night later, after she’d gotten answers ranging from the women needed a scapegoat, to Marcellus had given their starving children bread and people assumed, the Lupanar brothel rose ahead.
The noise of carousing filled the air and obscene images decorated even the outer walls.
John touched her arm. “You can’t go in there.”
“I’m going in there.” She marched through the gates. The hot feel of sin wrapped around her as she tried to avert her eyes from foul graffiti, miserable women, and vile men. The vilest of the lot sat on a stool collecting money from unkempt patrons. She marched up to him. “Was Caius Marcellus here a few weeks back?”
“What’s it worth to you?” The lewd man scratched a pimply sore on his greasy forehead.
Even though John stood beside her, she shivered. “I’ll pay your bribe. Tell me.”
“Yea, Caius Marcellus came here. He tried to buy a slave. Came with a freedman who claimed the girl was his sister. I gave them her body. Wretched waste of money with that prostitute killing herself. My ten denarii then?” The loathsome man held out his palm.
Gwen hurled the coins at his head and swept out the gate.
Outside the walls, Gwen heaved a sigh and looked to John. “I told you Marcellus wouldn’t.”
“No, you told me you thought he did. If he’s not consorting with women at night, or consorting with those women, that leaves smuggling.”
Oh. Gwen dropped her gaze. “You’ve been a hero tonight. What can I do for you in return?”
“Put a good word in with your father for me for a tribune post.”
“Of course.” Gwen tromped alongside John. Marcellus couldn’t work for the Viri, could he? As John said, he left at night to do something.
Knees drawn up, Marcellus sat in the broad window of the servants’ room he’d slept in these past two nights and watched as dusk turned to darkness. The moon rose, and the first watch of the night faded into the second, and still he watched.
Gwen had left with John hours ago. Given the state of mind she was in, who knew where they’d gone or what she’d do.
The villa gate clicked. The moon made a long shadow of Gwen’s body. John stood less than a handbreadth away from her. She embraced him, then turned and entered the villa. John walked away into the night.
Marcellus clenched the shale window, digging rock under his nails. In a matter of weeks, Consul Julius would declare the patrician Caius Marcellus dead and force him, a freedman, to drop out of Gwen’s life forever. So, what right did he have to question her goings-on?
With him gone, she’d marry John. The man would be good to her, and they’d take the fine patrician estates and the peaceful patrician life that no lash or harsh word touched and be happy. If a child sprang into being before that, John and she would take his child too, make the child just as wretchedly happy as themselves.
Marcellus glared at the dirty floor. Grabbing his cloak, he threw himself on the narrow bed he’d slept on three years ago in this room.
Hate, hate,
he hated patricians. Soon he’d have a chance to slay them in his revolt. Hate, as long as he focused on that, nothing could hurt him.
Chapter 25
Feet spread, Marcellus stood in front of Consul Julius.
The consul looked up. Fabius stood behind him. “What progress on catching the Shadow Man?”
“I’ve followed him twice to no avail.” He had the ring that Wryn claimed belonged to the Shadow Man, yet he’d not show them that for fear Fabius would discover the Shadow Man himself. Then he’d forfeit all hold he had over Consul Julius.
Consul Julius struck his flabby fist against the table. “I want the Shadow Man caught. Emperor Trajan is planning a banquet next month for those who’ve served him best, and I’d very much like to attend as the guest of honor.”
Twisting his hands over, Marcellus brought his shoulders up. “The Shadow Man suspects a spy. He won’t reappear until the spy is caught.”
“Then make sure a spy is caught.” Consul Julius glared.
“How?” Marcellus met the consul’s glare.
“We could turn you in to the Shadow Man.” Fabius raised his scornful voice. “I’d thoroughly enjoy watching you die.”
A shiver ran through Marcellus. Could he truly trust Consul Julius to free and pay him after he caught the Shadow Man?
“Fabius!” Consul Julius grabbed his arm. “Corann has served us well. Don’t make death threats.”
Marcellus’ muscles loosened.
“Served us well? He stole my woman. Again.” A scar ran across the clenched muscles of Fabius’ right arm, a battle wound from hewing down Dacian natives. “Though she could still be mine. Gwen’s cohabiting with a slave. By law, she forfeits her free status and becomes a slave of the owner.”
Marcellus’ knees buckled. What perverted law was this?
Consul Julius coughed. “Legally, the woman has to know the man is a slave for that law to apply.”
“Gwen doesn’t know. I swear she doesn’t know.” Marcellus’ hand trembled. What kind of trouble had he gotten Gwen into?
Fabius rested his fingertips on the table, an insolent look in his dark eyes. “Unless, of course, I told her.”
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 24
