“About that second time I saved your life….” Gwen cleared her throat. Gripping the edge of her chiton sleeve, she pushed the fabric up. Dark bruises covered massive protruding welts.
He stiffened. “Did Fabius do this to you?”
“That one’s from him.” She pointed to a purple bruise on her wrist. “The others are my handiwork.”
Stepping forward, he flicked back her cloak and pushed down the shoulder of her chiton. More ugly bruises stared up at him. He froze. “Gwen. Why?” He touched his palm to a long bruise, covering the black. If only his fingers had the healing touch for the bruises looked painful yet.
She squirmed. “My father may be sort of under the impression you created them.”
“What?” He dropped his hands.
“These bruises and my father’s resulting rage is what made the Shadow Man release you yesterday.”
Stepping back, he struck his hand against his forehead. “Of all the lies you could come up with, the best you could think of was that I brutalized you? Perhaps tell your father the truth about my capture.”
“You told me not to tell my father!” Gwen raised lily-white hands.
Marcellus groaned.
“Don’t complain too much.” An impish grin turned up her ruby lips. “You could be chained right now suffering torture at Senator Sulla’s hands. I rescued you.”
“Rescued me so I can die at a legionary’s sword point.”
“My father merely plans to arrest you, not kill you.” She gave him an encouraging smile.
“That’s what he told you.” Marcellus stared at the ever-growing dust cloud that soon would overtake them.
“I’ll patch it up.” She patted his hand.
He jerked his gaze to her. “How are you going to patch up a consul of the Roman Empire thinking I brutalized his daughter?” His horse was nowhere near swift enough to outrun those legionaries.
She pressed her hands against her hips. “I’m very good at handling my father.”
“Yes.” He rolled his eyes to the blue sky. Thunderclouds would better compliment the ensuing moments. “So you told me when I asked for your hand in marriage, and I remember getting thrown out of the Paterculi gate.”
Gwen took one deep breath then the Praetorian Guard surrounded them.
The thunder of hoofbeats approached then Father’s horse came to a rearing halt in front of her. “Arrest that man.” Father gestured with his gladius.
“Father, so nice to see you.” Gwen stepped in front of Marcellus.
“Move away from my daughter, Marcellus.” Father motioned the legionaries forward.
“He saved my life from Fabius.” She pointed to the pine grove where Fabius’ body lay.
“What?” Father touched his gaze to her torn and bloody dress. “And I’m still arresting Marcellus.”
“Marcellus didn’t make the bruises. I lied.” Stepping up to Father’s horse, she grabbed the reins.
“You lied!”
“Can Marcellus and I talk to you about this back home with Mother, please?” She reached for Father’s hand.
“I’m not letting that man anywhere near you.” Father swung down from the horse, gladius drawn. Legionaries already surrounded Marcellus.
She hurtled back to stand between the sword points and Marcellus. “In truth, Father, all is well.”
“I’ve heard that lie before.” Father glared ahead.
“It’s not a lie, but I can’t explain this here in front of everyone.” She grabbed for Marcellus’ hand. His fingers felt cold, and he didn’t grip her hand back. A full score short swords leveled at him now.
Father held a gladius up, all too close to Marcellus’ throat.
She grabbed Father’s wrist. “Do you truly wish to kill the father of my child before you even give me a chance to explain?”
Marcellus’ eyes widened to the breaking point as he stared at her.
With a groan, Father lowered the blade, but his glare still plunged into Marcellus. “You had better have an excellent explanation, or after this day’s journey I shall just finish off what I started now.”
“Oh, he does, he does, Father.” She grabbed Father’s sword arm and shoved his gladius toward its scabbard.” “Let’s ride.”
Father pressed his mouth tight. “You’re riding in the back, Marcellus, nowhere near my daughter.”
“Don’t worry, Father, that’s all his mount knows how to do anyway.” She leaned to Marcellus’ ear. “This time, I’m taking the Shadow Man’s horse, not that sorry nag you call a steed.”
“Sorry nag?” Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “It’s the only horse that hasn’t thrown me yet.”
In the Paterculi sitting room, the air thickened past the point of taking a breath. Gwen paced as Mother took a seat by Father. Marcellus sat across from them, hand braced on the couch arm as everyone glared at him like he was a convicted criminal.
Gwen stepped between her parents and her man. “Marcellus is a spy against the Viri. That’s why Wryn always suspected him of smuggling.”
Father merely continued glaring while Mother ran her gaze down the bruises on her arm, which her sleeveless tunica showed all too well.
“Yesterday, while we were spying on the Shadow Man, who will soon be arrested thanks to Marcellus, that man kidnapped Marcellus.” Gwen wiped moist palms on her tunica. “Since you offered the Aedile position to Marcellus, the Shadow Man thought Marcellus had turned traitor on the Viri and planned to kill Marcellus.”
Still no word from Mother or Father.
Moving back, Gwen sat by Marcellus. Her shoulder brushed his arm. Did Mother almost go for the gladius on Father’s belt?
Gwen squirmed. “Marcellus’ guards and I didn’t know where the Shadow Man held Marcellus. We needed to convince the Shadow Man that Father hated Marcellus and he would never work on the right side of the law.”
“I hate him all right,” Father said.
“Therefore, I gave myself these bruises and told you Marcellus had done it. Then the Shadow Man released him. My plan worked beautifully.”
Father raised his voice. “You have bruises all over your body.”
Slapping her hands against the cushions, Gwen half-rose. “Do you honestly think I’d sit here and defend him if he’d made those bruises?” She looked to Marcellus. He sat stiff and wordless. “I threw a javelin at him when he misspoke.”
Father looked at Mother. The slightest hint of a smile turned up Mother’s lips. “She is my daughter, Aquilus.”
Father groaned. He turned his glare to Marcellus. “Even if you didn’t brutalize Gwen, you let my daughter risk her life chasing smugglers with you.”
Marcellus squirmed. “It wasn’t so very dangerous.”
“I wanted to, Father.” Gwen wrapped her hand around Marcellus’.
“You’re Gwen. Of course, you wanted to. If Marcellus had shown a little good judgment, however, rather than practically getting my daughter killed.”
“I like that about him, Father.”
“Shall I bring up stealing my daughter from this house when I told you no, Marcellus?” Father raised his voice.
“The Viri meant to kill me, Father.” Gwen turned what she hoped was a persuasive gaze to him. “And none of those things about Marcellus’ reputation are true. He just needed to ingratiate himself with the Viri, so created some truly horrid rumors.”
“You expect me to trust his word after what he’s done?” Father dug his fingers into the couch.
“He didn’t do anything… much.” Gwen scooted closer to Marcellus. “Oh, and any chance you’d give John Spiros a tribune position? Marcellus promised him one for aiding us, but Consul Julius wouldn’t oblige.”
“Aiding you how?” Father leaned forward.
“Mostly by lying to you, Father, and concealing our spy work.”
“John knew about this?”
“He helped me too. He deserves the tribune post.” Gwen touched Marcellus’ leg.
“If everyone was get
ting their just desserts right now….” Father looked darkly at Marcellus. “Why didn’t you tell me Marcellus’ life was in danger and that you needed me to act more angry with him?” His voice deepened. “An easy task, I can assure you.”
“You’re not that good of an actor. Besides, you’re too law-abiding. You’d never have stolen the Praetorian Guard.”
Father passed his hand over his brow and then looked at Marcellus again. “You don’t deserve her.”
“Trust me,” Marcellus’ eyes had the most intense light, “I know that full-well, sir.”
A sigh passed through Father’s mouth, then he looked to her. “You’re with child?”
“No, not in truth.” She tucked her legs underneath her. “I just made that up so you wouldn’t kill Marcellus while I was explaining everything.”
Father raised both hands to heaven as if to cry out a frustrated plea. With a groan, he looked to Marcellus. “I hope someday you have a daughter and she drives you just as raving insane trying to protect her as I’ve been these last weeks. As your impotent rage fails, yet again, to safeguard her, I hope your deepest desire also becomes to kill off all men under thirty.”
Mother rested her hand on Father’s leg. “You do know, that’s what my father wished upon you.”
“He certainly got his wish.” Father slumped against the couch.
“We should go home.” Gwen stood. “Tiring day.”
Outside the Paterculi gate, Marcellus touched her arm. “Thank you for not telling them I was a slave.”
“My parents are followers of the Way. I’m sure they would have accepted that too, but I thought that part was your story to tell.”
“I appreciate that.”
Reaching up, she touched his tunic that dried blood now glued to his tattered back. Stepping in front of him, she pressed her hand to his heart. “Are there as many scars in here, as there?”
“More. I’m sorry.”
“Do you think you’ll ever heal from all of it?” The scent of laurel blossoms wafted around them.
“Perhaps not, but scarred or not, I have everything to live for.” He wrapped both arms around her. “And this Jesus seems skilled at healing brokenness.”
Chapter 37
A breeze blew through the atrium. Gwen gripped the handle of the door to the back room where Marcellus used to store the slave revolt’s weapons. He’d sold most of them a fortnight ago. She twisted to her husband. “This plan of yours had better work. The rabble’s been shooting murderous glances at me ever since you called off the revolt. Tarbus is the only one who’s seemed to accept your news.”
“My plans always work. I got a domina as wife, didn’t I?” Marcellus grinned at her.
Behind him, a woman and a child shifted nervously. Noiselessly, Gwen pushed the door ajar.
The rabble gathered inside the room, their long faces and angry looks filling the dreary space. She should repaint these walls.
Androkles squared his shoulders. “I say we have our slave revolt without Marcellus.”
“Where will we get money for blades?” A blond-haired man cursed. ‘This is all the domina’s fault.”
Tarbus shifted his feet. “She saved his life, twice, and he said we can still free slaves. We’ll use the Marcellus estates, now that Gwen got the land for him, to smuggle slaves to freedom.”
Androkles cursed and half the rabble cursed along with him. “I will be killing patricians, Marcellus’ approval or no.”
Gwen beckoned the woman.
Her light brown hair contrasted with her white wool tunica. Holding her child tight, the woman slid into the room. An awed expression stretched across her face as if she didn’t quite believe the sight before her. “Androkles.”
The big man whipped around. His jaw gaped. “Miriam?”
The little girl in the woman’s arms extended her hand. “Papa?”
Androkles moved his stare to the child who’d seen perhaps four summers. The girl had the same green eyes as Androkles.
Even armed with the information Marcellus had previously collected, it had taken three weeks of the finest investigators Paterculi dowry money could buy to locate the woman and child in the port city of Ostia as slaves in a cheap tavern reeking of ale.
“Androkles!” Breaking into smiles, the woman ran to him. She grabbed his hand.
Androkles looked to Marcellus, wonder in his eyes. “How did you find them?”
The blond-haired member of the rabble stepped out from the crowd, dirt on his unshaven cheeks. “I have a mother somewhere in Gaul. Will you look for her, Marcellus?”
“I have a son. I think he’s still in Greece,” a tattooed man said.
“We’ll find them all.” Gwen smiled at the rabble. Despite their infuriating ways, she could see herself growing quite fond of them.
Moving past her, Marcellus stepped in front of Androkles.
One arm around Miriam’s waist, Androkles held his child in the other. As the child prattled on, the woman wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling up into his eyes.
The hint of a grin twisted at Marcellus’ mouth. “Still planning on abandoning this villa to die in a revolt? Or would you like to help me make a run to Germania this week with fugitive slaves?”
Androkles glared at him. “You’re a lovesick fool to think all men will change their minds about revenge merely for a woman.”
Gwen swallowed and looked to Marcellus. What would they do if the rabble revolted? She’d feel bound to report them to the garrison, but Marcellus would never accept that.
The girl child reached forward and rubbed her hand across the stubble on Androkles’ cheek. “Mama told me about you, but I didn’t know you’d be so big.”
Air slid through Androkles’ lungs. With a sigh, he looked to Marcellus. “In my case, though, you’re right. I’ll help you with your rescuing slaves plan.” Bending his head, he kissed the woman. She kissed him back.
A beaming smile tugged at Gwen’s mouth. As Androkles and the woman and child gazed at each other, she grasped Marcellus’ hand.
He smiled at her.
Sliding her arms around his neck, she leaned up to his ear while the rabble jostled out of the room. “That will be us someday,” she whispered, looking at Androkles’ daughter. “Soon hopefully. I think I want a girl child first, then a boy.”
Marcellus’ eyes widened, dismay swimming in those green depths. “Consul Julius still has the power to expose me at any time. The rabble fills this villa, and we have thousands of slaves to rescue. Besides, I know nothing about fatherhood. Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think we should bring a child into this mess.”
With a shrug, she laughed into his face. “Oh, very well. Just never kiss me again, and I’m sure we can avoid ever having any children.”
Gwen brushed her fingers over the delightful new couch arm. A mural of mountain creeks, which still smelled of fresh paint, stretched out across the tablinum ceiling.
The heavy shelves that had lined the wall were gone, and bamboo structures stood in their place with silk from the Orient nestled against the boards. New scrolls filled the bamboo shelves. Morning breeze blew through the light curtains, puffing at the embroidered silver roses.
“This makes no sense.” From his seat by the newly-purchased cherry table, Marcellus held up a tablet. Numbers detailing seed costs and vineyard profits lined the wax.
“Not to worry, I know all about running villas. I’ll teach you.” Moving toward him, she touched the plaster wall. Cream, that’s what she’d paint it, with a mural of the Britannia Sea and the white cliffs of Dover staring down between those two arches.
He caught her around the waist. Fingers on her hips, he pulled her to him. “You could do it for me.”
She touched her knee to the edge of his chair, her hands touching the carved arms as she looked down at him. “Miss the opportunity of lording over you yet another thing I am more skilled at than you?”
“Only horsemanship and scribe work.”
&nbs
p; “And swordplay.” She flaunted her bare shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t think you’d beat me at swordplay.” He ran his finger down her collarbone.
“I have better footwork and surer strokes.” Lunging, she grabbed the knife at his belt. The blade caught the sunlight as she twirled it between manicured fingers.
“Ah, but what if I did this?” He slid his hand over her shoulder blades, fast as lightning. He pressed her down on his legs.
“That’s street fighting.” She twisted with her, well his, knife.
“I’m rather good at it.” He gripped her wrist, holding her blade away from himself as he traced his other hand down her neckline.
“It’s cheating to bring street fighting into a sword battle.” She tried to shove off his legs.
“I’ll teach you how to cheat, delicia.” He touched his mouth to hers as he pushed her sideways. Her shoulders rested against the table edge as he leaned over her.
“I have work to do, and so do you.” Wriggling away from him, she stabbed her finger to the tablet and moved to the entranceway.
Marcellus groaned. “I’ll pay you in kisses if you do these accounts for me.”
“As if I’d have to work to convince you to kiss me.” With a laugh, she let the curtain fall shut across the tablinum.
Her sandal clipped the cracked atrium tile. She still needed to decide on a color for the new tile. Rose-colored tiles with a mosaic pattern would be perfect. Perhaps a myrtle bush?
The sound of sandals pounding against packed dirt grew louder. Someone burst through the villa door. Wryn. He wore tribune armor, the metal gleaming in the sunlight, his red cloak hanging from his shoulders. “I just reached home after receiving an urgent missive from Father about you, which turned out to be false. Your husband’s a spy on the Viri? He caught the leader I’ve worked three years on finding?” Wryn looked disappointed.
Gwen pressed her finger to her lips. “Shh… don’t want those working to hear.” She had servants now— a delightfully pleasant cook, a severe-looking maid, and a lovable gardener with gray hair and the sweetest Thracian accent.
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 35
