He needed John on his side. Marcellus rapped against the iron bars. A porter emerged. Marcellus grabbed the gate. “Where’s John?”
“In the gardens.” The porter swung the gate open.
Pushing past the man, Marcellus sped around the brick villa. He had one chance to make this work.
“Marcellus?” John looked up from a bench, a stack of tablets in his hand. John spoke with so much calm.
Was that why Gwen trusted John? Why she didn’t trust him? Marcellus forced his hands to uncurl. He’d already lost Gwen. Now that she knew he was a slave, she’d never smile on him again, for she was a domina. At present, he needed to save the rabble and his lives.
Marcellus stepped in front of John. “You want a tribune post. According to the men’s gossip, it’s why you asked for Gwen.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I’ll not deny it. Though I would have paid much more consideration to Gwen’s happiness than you have.”
“I’m a spy for Consul Julius Semproni and Fabius Agricola against the Viri smugglers you’ve pursued with Wryn. Consul Julius can offer you a tribune post.” Whether or not he would, who knew, but if he convinced John that Consul Julius would aid him, then he could buy John’s silence.
John jerked back.
“Here’s the evidence.” Marcellus placed a parchment in John’s hands. Later he would leave it on Cato’s dead body when turning him over to the Shadow Man— undeniable evidence of spy work with lists of names, places, and seized shipments. If John had read any of Wryn’s scrolls, he’d recognize the dates.
John skimmed the parchment. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I want your help.”
“Of course, I’ll help.” John leaped to his feet.
“In return, I’ll have your promise you’ll not alert the Paterculis of this.”
John took a step back. “Why?”
“Gwen wishes to tell them, but Consul Julius does not. When she comes to you—”
“Why does she disagree with you on this?”
“I’m a spy. Some of the means I’ve used are less than… what you might do. When Gwen protests, tell her to keep her peace, for the sake of Rome.” That sounded like a patrician’s speech.
John folded one arm over the other. “These methods, have you used any of them on your wife?”
“Of course not.” Though he might have to now. He’d not let the rabble or himself die at her hands, or because of her loose lips. Her beautiful loose lips. She’d never kiss him again now that she knew he was a slave.
“Are you breaking Gwen’s heart, seeing other women?”
No. But he couldn’t even convince Gwen of that. “Doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll believe what you will.” Marcellus spread his stance. “But look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want this political appointment.”
John turned the parchment in his hands, but the greed for glory burned in his eyes, same as every other Roman. “Gwen—”
“If she wishes to divorce me, she has every legal right. She doesn’t need your help.”
John bit his lip.
“On the other hand, staying out all night with another man’s wife, that’s going to look a lot like adultery to a court of law.” Marcellus rested one hand on his belt as confidently as if Rome recognized his marriage.
“I never—”
“I saw you. Mixing yourself up in a marriage dispute will not make you look more innocent to a magistrate.”
John nodded.
“You’ll pledge to tell no one about this until we catch the leader of the Viri?” Sweat collected on Marcellus’ palms. If John said “no,” what would he do?
“I swear it.”
Marcellus’ shoulders loosened.
Pounding came from the front gate.
“It’s her.” A groan slid through Marcellus’ teeth. Being right would spare his neck this day, but oh, to have been wrong.
“Who?”
“Gwen. Remember your promise.” Marcellus melted into the hedges.
The Spiros’ villa. Gwen heaved a sigh that almost choked her among the other tortured breaths she drew. Her feet made a clattering noise across the cobblestones as she ran for the gardens. John stood by a bench, and never in all her life had she felt such joy to see him.
“John.” She grabbed his hand. “I saw….” Her throat scratched. “I saw Marcellus kill a man.”
John’s eyes widened.
And he was a slave. The fewer people who knew that, the less chance that the infamia of what she’d done would spread. “I need to go to my familia. You’ll help me?”
“Ecce.” John raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to say this, Gwen, so I’ll just say it.” A discomforted look hung in his eyes, but he stood straight. “You wanted Marcellus, so you broke the trust of well-nigh everyone and went after him. In some ways, you got what you deserved.”
Her jaw dropped. “John, you said you promised Wryn—”
“I want an army career, one with no Paterculi connections I thought I’d never obtain. Now I’ve found myself an opportunity with Marcellus. I won’t ruin it for a woman who rejected me.”
Gwen’s hands shook. “You can’t accept an opportunity from Marcellus! He works with the Viri.”
“I know. I agreed to help them.”
John had agreed to help the Viri? No, that passed the bounds of belief. Her senses pounded. “But—”
Marcellus strode into the courtyard. Sweat shone on his strong arms. He walked right at her.
She pressed against the hedge behind John. How much had Marcellus heard? He was a desperate runaway who killed effortlessly, and she had the information necessary to have him crucified. Her legs buckled.
Marcellus’ mouth smiled, yet his eyes held a much deadlier expression. “May I have the gardens to myself for a moment, John?”
No! Gwen’s cry stuck in her throat.
John cast one uncertain look at her. Turning, he walked into the atrium. Gwen jerked up the hem of her tunica and grabbed for her knife. She clutched an empty leg sheath. The blood drained from her face.
Marcellus stepped in front of her.
Her ashen fingers quivered as she struggled for breath.
He raised his eyebrows. “You think me a brute?”
“You killed a man.” He’d won even when she had his gladius and a knife. She glanced for a branch, a rock, the knife hanging from his belt. The knife he’d murdered with.
“Good.” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her in front of him. “I will not hang on a cross because of you.” His arm guarded his knife.
She glanced to the atrium. John had already disappeared. “Marcellus.” Her voice shrank.
“Will not, hear me?” He moved into her face, wrath as out of control as passion had been just hours before.
Her muscles shook.
“Come.” Marcellus motioned to the Spiros’ gate.
“Never.” She shoved into the juniper. Even the branches jabbing into her back felt comforting compared to the look in his eyes.
He closed his hand over hers. “I thought Roman women were trained to obey their husbands.”
“As if marriage to a slave is any marriage.” She spit in his face.
Fury crossed his features. Grabbing her arm, he propelled her toward the gate as his strength overpowered her.
Chapter 27
The creak of hinges cut through Gwen as Marcellus kicked the gate to his villa shut. His fingers surrounded her arm, gentle enough, but she’d tried to rip away to no avail.
As he forced her to enter the atrium, Bruno looked to her. “Is everything—”
Marcellus moved his jaw down. “Information is secured.” He thrust her into the bedchamber. As the door swung shut behind him, breath whooshed from his lungs, and he released her arm.
Her gladius lay under the mattress. Even with it, he’d defeated her last time. She darted her desperate gaze around the room.
“Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
S
he jerked her gaze to him. No more anger in those green eyes she’d thought she knew. Instead, they held chagrin. Her shallow breath slowed a mite. “You shoved me out of the Spiros house and forced me through the streets. Of course, you hurt me.” Her heart raced as if to burst from her chest.
“I’m sorry, Gwen.” Moving back, he grasped the door handle. “If you need anything, let me know.” He twisted it.
Anything? Her chest didn’t shake so much when he spoke like that. She stepped forward. “I want to go to my father’s house.”
He released the door handle and shook his head, but his green eyes looked tender now.
“I want a divorce. Surely I deserve that after you lied about your very identity.” She held his gaze. He knew as well as she the infamia he’d subjected her to, and how she could lose her very freedom by staying another night under his roof. He claimed he loved her. She clasped her hands together. “Please.”
“You’ll tell your familia and they’ll hang me on a cross for killing Cato.”
“I’ll not tell.” That might not even be a lie. Crucifixion was a horrible death. Then again, he worked for the Viri. How many men had he killed?
“Give me one month, and you can leave for your father’s house permanently.” Sorrow lingered in his eyes.
When he spoke like this, her heart didn’t pound, nor her arms tremble. Hands on her belt, she stood straight. “I’m good with a horse and a knife. Isn’t it better that you release me and so earn my silence, then that I flee by night and spill your secrets to the first garrison I reach?”
Marcellus raised one eyebrow, his voice deadly calm. “You think I’m only capable of killing men?”
Her knees wobbled as the room spun.
He turned on his heel and walked out.
All those violent tales people whispered about Marcellus, she now believed each one.
Digging into the cabinet, Gwen extracted a satchel. Father’s box sat on the tile. Taking Wryn’s gladius, she pried open the lid. Twelve daggers, not such a bad wedding gift after all. She tucked one in her leg sheath and tossed three more in the satchel. Laying Wryn’s gladius on top, she stuffed her cloak in. What if Marcellus caught her leaving?
Better to die escaping than wait for him to slit a knife across her throat like with Cato. Cold chills ran through her. She dug the buckle of the satchel through its hook with shaking hands.
What if Marcellus’ master, whoever he was, accused her of knowing all along, purposefully cohabiting with a slave? Sweat dripped down her stomach. She’d need the Marcellus signet ring to prove her innocence. She glanced to the shelves. No sign of Marcellus’ locked box.
Shoving the satchel under the bed, she took her lock pick. She moved silently over the tile floor.
No sign of Marcellus in the long shadows of the atrium. She slid into the tablinum, only the moneybox. She glided past empty rooms to the servant quarters. Androkles stood guard at the back gate, and a few of the rabble sat in the courtyard, but she kept close to the hedges.
Inside the first room, Marcellus’ cloak draped over a narrow bed. The room smelled of him. Her heart pounded. He’d told her he loved her. He’d kissed her. He’d held her.
The box sat on the floor. She dug the lock pick in. The latch gave way. The signet ring lay on top of a letter. The words of Sappho’s poem, which she’d written to him a year ago now, stared up at her. Many creases lined her letter as if he’d read it time and time again.
A patrician would get exiled for killing Cato, but Marcellus, he’d be crucified. Nails would pierce Marcellus’ flesh as he hung on a wooden cross. She swallowed hard, but she had to tell Father everything.
Grabbing the signet ring, she shoved the box closed.
Now to wait until all but the guards slept and then climb over the wall. She glanced to the bricks that stretched a pace higher than her.
She’d have to buy a horse, but the road was still far from safe. She couldn’t go to John, for he’d chosen Marcellus and the Viri’s side. What possessed John to break the law? She puckered her brow. What did Marcellus mean about spies and Cato?
Something didn’t make sense.
Crashing on the narrow bed, Marcellus yanked out the stopper to the wine amphora. Outside, the moon rose higher in the sky.
His back rubbed against the wall, and tonight he could feel the searing pain of every lash mark the same as if they’d happened yesterday. Every stripe across his back separated him a world away from Gwen. He thought he would have five years with her, then a few months, and now three and a half weeks and all had ended.
He took a swallow of wine.
Gwen had believed him when he threatened to kill her. That was the point of a threat—to intimidate. How could she believe that of him? He’d never actually do it.
What did she think of him? Much less than John, that was certain. Marcellus tipped the amphora back, draining it.
No, John had never killed. John didn’t bear the scars of twenty-three years of slavery. John was like Gwen, cheerfully innocent. John, unlike him, could make Gwen happy. Obviously, he’d step in. Marcellus swigged the wine amphora straight. No water diluted this strong drink.
Didn’t matter. He needed to catch the Shadow Man, then Gwen could leave this danger, return to her familia, and never think of him again. He’d start his slave revolt.
Hate, he hated the kind of men who laid these stripes on his back, burnt the letters in his flesh, the lash marks and seared letters that separated him worlds away from Gwen. Her look when she realized he was no patrician, the look of love melting into scorn.
His face contorted. She’d not even deign to say goodbye to him after he captured the Shadow Man and sent her to her familia. No, the only time a domina touched a slave was with a lash.
The cheap wine burned Marcellus’ throat, but he swallowed more.
Hate, he could live on hate. If he slit his knife across enough patrician throats each day of this revolt, he wouldn’t ache for Gwen. He wouldn’t care that she despised him.
Tilting the amphora, he drained the last drop. The headiness of wine swam through his head, but not nearly strong enough yet. He’d need two more amphorae to submerge these thoughts into nothingness. He knew that from when he’d caused his mother’s death.
Reaching under the bed, he yanked out another amphora. The clay felt cool. He jerked out the stopper, and the smell of oblivion tantalized his senses.
He couldn’t do this. He had to catch the Shadow Man.
Drawing his arm back, he hurled the amphora across the room. With a crack, the clay shattered against the wall, shooting shards across the tile. Dark liquid oozed into the floor, but he grabbed the locked box by his bed.
The gold ring, what did it mean? What if he forgot all this and sent Gwen to her familia tomorrow and started the revolt now?
No. Marcellus shook his head. He needed to put a stop to the Viri enslaving ships’ crews. Also, Gwen would want her dowry back. He’d soon earn those million sestertii from Consul Julius, and he could get some coin from the villas with the Marcellus signet ring. Gwen deserved the money more than Consul Julius.
Hand heavy from drink, he dug the key into the lock. The box lid opened. No signet ring.
He froze. Gwen had stolen it before.
By all the gods. Marcellus smashed his fist against the wall. The plaster cracked.
The curtain rustled. Bruno poked his head in. His gaze touched the splattered wine and pottery shards. “Something wrong?”
“Not yet. But tell the rabble, if they don’t care to hang on crosses, they’d best keep a sharp eye out on guard duty.” If Gwen had stolen that signet ring, she intended to run tonight.
He smashed his foot against the wall, making another crack in the plaster. They’d better catch the Shadow Man soon. Because he, by Hercules’ beard, needed to kill patricians, starting with Fabius.
First, though, he had to deal with Gwen.
A lone oil lamp flickered. Gwen pulled a coverlet around her shoulders and tu
cked her feet underneath her. Still, she shivered. She flicked her gaze to the front courtyard. One of the rabble marched in front of the gate, and other dark shadows moved between hedges.
If Marcellus caught her trying to escape, he’d kill her. Her breath stuck in her throat as she pressed her fingers against the cold metal of his signet ring. Once the moon set, she’d make the attempt. She had to get over that wall without anyone detecting her. Had to—
With the crack of a too hastily twisted handle, the door crashed open.
The scent of cheap wine exuded from Marcellus, his eyes bloodshot from it. He kicked the door. It slammed shut. Even not half-drunk, he’d told her he was capable of killing her.
Gwen shrank against the headboard.
He ran his gaze down her. “Where’s the Marcellus signet ring?” Wine slurred his voice. No bandage on his arm now, the seared brand of slave letters caught the light. Someone had treated him like an animal.
“I… I don’t know.” Flicking the ring under her pillow, Gwen clenched the sheet so tight her fingernails penetrated the threads.
“Yes, you do.” He caught her shoulder.
A paralyzing chill ran down her arm. “I d—don’t. I swear.”
He grabbed her other shoulder, his body so close as he leaned over her. “I want that ring.” The pressure of his fingers gripping her shoulders dislodged her tunica brooch. The fabric gapped and his gaze followed the slipping cloth.
“I don’t have it.” The force of his weight shoved her back against the pillows. Her eyes rounded as she stared up at him. She had a knife, but with him pinning her, she couldn’t reach it.
“You do have it.” He pressed his fingers against her now-bare shoulder, his hands hot from drink, as her unfastened tunica slid further.
“Please don’t touch me.” She trembled as she met his gaze.
Hands dropping from her, he jolted back. His green eyes stared into hers. “What did you think I was going to do, rape you?”
“I’d contemplated the idea.” Her chest trembled. Sliding one leg up, she gripped the handle of the knife in her leg sheath. Last two times she’d drawn a knife on him, he’d disarmed her all too easily.
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 26
