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‘You’re not denying it.’ Scaevola’s expression turned leering. ‘Why don’t you just admit it? Admit that you want her!’
‘I didn’t say that, but she deserves better than to be part of some game. She’s a woman, not a pile of coins.’
‘She’s my woman.’ Scaevola leaned forward abruptly. ‘Unless you win the game, that is. What do you say, Varro—why don’t we make this interesting?’
Chapter Ten
‘What do you mean?’
Marius held his breath as the already taut atmosphere of the room became even more strained. Had Scaevola really just suggested what he thought he’d just suggested, staking his prospective bride in a game of tabula? Incredibly enough, that seemed to be exactly what he was saying, offering him the chance that he’d wished for—the chance to save her from a marriage she didn’t want.
‘I mean, let’s play for some real stakes.’ Scaevola’s voice taunted him. ‘How much are you willing to risk for her?’
‘You’ve had too much wine.’ Marius resisted the temptation to take advantage of the other man’s drunkenness. Although, on the other hand, he wasn’t exactly sober himself. It would be a fair game in that regard...if he took up the offer...
‘What’s she worth to you?’ Scaevola ignored the accusation. ‘Five thousand denarii? Ten thousand? You have the money, I know that. You don’t spend it on drinking or women.’
‘I’ve no intention of gambling it away either.’
‘Not even when the prize is so appealing?’ Scaevola’s expression turned scathing. ‘Of course, I forgot you’re the model soldier, just like your father. Oops.’ He put a hand to his mouth in mock horror. ‘I forgot—he left the army in disgrace, didn’t he? Stripped of his command and dishonourably discharged, although he was lucky to escape with his head, or so I’ve heard.’
Marius gritted his teeth so hard he was half-afraid he might crack his own jaw. It was true, his father had escaped charges of treason with his life, thanks largely to Nerva’s intervention, but he’d been a broken man afterwards. He’d barely made it home, dying of fever a mere month after he’d returned, using his last breath to tell his thirteen-year-old son the truth about the charges laid against him.
‘I think it’s time to call it a night.’ Arvina tried intervening again.
‘Pity.’ Scaevola’s eyes kindled maliciously. ‘I thought you had more backbone, Varro. I thought you might actually appreciate the chance to win her. I suppose I can see the appeal myself in a rustic kind of way, even if she does look like a savage. I wonder if she acts like one in bed, too?’ He grinned. ‘But then I suppose I’ll find out after we’re married. After I’ve dealt with her behaviour tonight, of course. I haven’t thought of a punishment yet, but—’
‘How much?’ Marius slammed his fist on to the tabula board.
‘I knew it!’ Scaevola cackled. ‘I knew that you wanted to bed her.’
‘Not to bed her. To win her. That’s what you said.’ He fixed the other man with a challenging stare. ‘That means if I win, she’s mine completely.’
‘What?’ Scaevola’s voice faltered. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘How much do you owe her brother?’
‘Too much to risk losing her in a game.’
This time it was Marius’s turn to look scathing. ‘I thought you had more backbone, too. Or are you so scared of a tavern owner from Lindum?’
As he’d anticipated, Scaevola’s temper flared instantly.
‘Twenty thousand denarii!’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Arvina pushed his stool back and stood up. ‘Marius, don’t do it.’
‘I have five hundred here...’ he took a leather pouch from his belt and placed it on the table ‘...and nine thousand in the legion strong room.’
‘Not enough.’ Scaevola jutted his chin out, though his gaze dropped to the money pouch acquisitively.
‘But enough to pay back a big chunk of the debt. Probably enough to buy your way out of the marriage.’
‘There still needs to be more.’ Scaevola’s gaze wavered for a moment before settling on his sword hilt. ‘Your gladius. I want that.’
For a moment Marius thought about walking away. His father’s sword was his most treasured possession, made of the finest Spanish steel and with both sets of
their initials carved into the hilt. It was the last thing his father had given him on his deathbed and he’d worn it every day since, to the point where it felt like an extension of his own body. Losing it would be like losing a limb. Losing it to Scaevola would be unbearable.
