“We will have to come back tomorrow,” Horat commented as a new string of slaves stumbled in. They were a pathetic-looking bunch—skinny and caked in dirt. Although the thought of returning to this place of feces and desperation was repugnant, Brutus had to nod in agreement. They would find nothing suitable today, and it was best to leave before the crowds emptied into the avenue.
Just as Brutus was about to rise, a woman walked in. Even though she was tied to the same rope as the other women, her head was held high, and her muscles rippled under the threadbare cloth. Her stance was even more noteworthy, for her feet were shackled. What type of woman would need such restraint? Certainly not the wisps of girls that Lylith preferred in her service.
None of that mattered once Brutus looked upon her face. Her hair was matted and tangled, but you could sense the deep red sheen under the filthy clumps of hay. Her eyes were of the most brilliant green. It was obvious that she came far from these lands. Whoever and wherever she came from, Brutus needed to know the all.
“Bid on the fifth woman,” Brutus informed Horat.
The older man counted them off, and a scowl covered his face. “Sire, that one has a wild look to her.”
Brutus cared not. He wished to explain his sudden desire to Horat, but emotion clamped his throat. Finally, Brutus simply nodded.
“But, sire, I am certain that she has no idea how to even turn down a bed properly. Lylith will—”
“Lylith will take who I buy.” Brutus did not mean to be so harsh, but he wanted to hear nothing of his wife. The pinch-faced socialite had never stirred his blood in this way.
As his heart pounded too hard, Brutus finally knew what other men spoke of. Unlike his Senate colleagues, he cared nothing for the brothels or bathing girls, or the exotic prostitutes that Marc Antony plied him with.
Even his own mother had offered him a discreet male friend if he would marry again before she was too old to enjoy a grandchild. It had taken Brutus some fortnights to convince even his own mother that he was not taken by men, either.
Often Brutus had feared that he did not know passion as other men did. He had married twice, yet even after knowing a woman’s body, Brutus sensed there was something deeply wrong with him. But looking at this woman from the North, Brutus knew that was no longer true.
Before Horat could bid, another man, dressed in rough cotton and smelling worse than the arena, raised a hand, bidding on the whole string. In the course of a few moments, the man had nearly sealed the deal.
“Bid!” Brutus urged Horat, but his servant only stared at him.
“What would we do with twenty uneducated slaves?”
Dissatisfied with his servant, Brutus raised a hand and entered the bidding fray.
Horat looked horrified. “Sire! They are from Spain! Malcontents. They probably don’t even speak Latin! What will your mother say?”
Brutus cared not what either Lylith or his mother thought. He cared only for the green-eyed beauty.
* * *
Syra willed her face to show no emotion. To show no interest in the flurry of bidding. Yet her eyes glanced between the slaver, with his oily hair and paunched belly, looking as if he could have been Rax’s older brother, and the senator. Even if she did not recognize the legendary white toga or purple sash, the wide berth the patrons gave him more than labeled him as nobility.
She should not care who would buy flesh. They were Romans, beneath her contempt. Syra tried to hate them equally, but the senator’s gaze spoke not of wanton greed or carnal hunger. His deep brown eyes did not flicker from her as he bid more and more upon the string. Normally she hated men’s attention. Why, then, was her skin not crawling at this Roman’s blatant stare?
Perhaps it was the way his servant argued with him. What noble allowed such disrespect? What noble came, himself, to the slave markets? And what did he wish with her?
* * *
Brutus gritted his teeth. The greasy man across the arena seemed intent on purchasing this string. For each time he raised his hand, the other man increased his bid.
“Sire! What are you thinking? The price is extravagant!”
Never taking his eyes from the woman, Brutus spoke with his servant. “Are you saying I cannot afford this?”
“Sire, you know better than that. You could buy a thousand slaves. But why these? They are a sorrowful lot, to say the least.”
Brutus knew why he was so intent, but he did not want to share the knowledge with Horat. Some things were best kept close to your own heart. Brutus was used to slow, deliberate actions. Tonight, however, he rapidly tired of this bidding game.
Finally, Brutus stood up. “One hundred gold coins!”
Horat’s face drained of all color. His master had just raised the bid fivefold. Brutus grinned at the sight of his servant’s face. It felt good to do something so very rash and improper.
The other man gruffly bowed out. Bringing up his gavel high in the air, the auctioneer brought it down with a resounding bang. “Sold to the senator!”
The slaves were herded off the stage so that the last few stragglers could be auctioned off. Brutus and Horat made their way down the steps toward the magistrate’s booth.
The greasy bidder intercepted them and smiled a toothless grin. “Well done. I have not been outbid in a great while.”
“If you are still interested in the string, we might be able to work out an agreeable arrangement,” Brutus offered.
In his heart, he knew that Horat was correct. They had no need for all these slaves. He wanted only the woman. Besides, his frugal nature wanted to recoup some of the loss of his indulgence.
As they walked toward the slaves, the man asked, “What type of arrangement?”
Brutus pointed to the fiery redhead. “I truly only wanted this one. The rest I could sell back to you for—”
“No!” the woman exclaimed.
All eyes turned to the slave, but she did not flinch from their collective gaze. The redhead stepped forward and spoke in Latin, only heavily flavored with a Northern accent.
“Sire, these are good people stolen from their homes. We have traveled far, and they deserve better than what this man offers.”
Despite the woman’s respectful words, her emerald eyes spoke of disdain and anger. Brutus did not know why he answered—only that he wanted to hear her voice over and over again. “And what would that life be?”
The redhead looked ready to spit at the poorly dressed man. “We have children with us, and this man means to sell us all to the whorehouses down upon the riverfront.”
Turning to the man, Brutus asked, “Is this true?”
“Why else would I have bid so high? It certainly wasn’t for this one’s temperament.”
Brutus nearly laughed aloud. The only reason he had bid so much was for this redhead’s temperament. But the man had a point. Slaves were bought and sold in the marketplace every day. What did Brutus care for this tattered group? Another would be here tomorrow and the day after, until the Empire crumbled. It was the price Rome paid to be Rome.
“Then we should be able to reach a fair deal,” Brutus answered.
* * *
“No!” Syra shouted as they walked off. She strained against the chain that kept her from following. “There must be another way.”
The senator looked back over his shoulder. He had not the look of anger yet, but clearly was not used to being spoken to in such a tone.
Tears welled in her eyes, bitter that she need plea help from a Roman.
“Please,” she begged.
The nobleman’s face clouded over, and for a moment Syra feared she had gone too far. Then, he turned to his servant. “Is the contractor not commissioning more workers for Mars’ Temple?”
“Yes. They are gravely behind schedule,” Horat answered, a bit slow and uncertain. Syra did not understand the senator’s request, either.
“Good,” Brutus replied to his servant, then turned to the greasy man. “I am sorry, but I will not be nee
ding your services.”
Syra’s heartbeat quickened. Could he truly have heeded her words?
The slaver seemed equally surprised at the turn of events. “Senator, are you sure? I will compensate you well. Or I could give you a portion of the profits from the sale?”
She turned her eyes to the senator. Any reasonable man would take such a deal as the one the slaver offered. Syra could only hope this dark-haired man that stood before her was not feeling reasonable this night.
* * *
As attractive as the financial offer was, Brutus could not disappoint the green-eyed woman who stared so intently. “Thank you, but no.”
Brutus’ tone was stern enough that the greasy man knew he was dismissed. After the man shuffled off, Brutus turned to Horat. “I will take this one home while you arrange housing for the others.”
“Sire, the bureaucracy alone will take me hours.”
“Then you had best get started.”
Brutus walked over to release the redhead from the string, but she touched his arm. He jerked his hand away, shocked not so much at her audacity, but at the heat that shot up his arm.
The woman backed away a step and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, sire, but I have one other request of you.”
“You certainly are demanding for a recently purchased slave,” Brutus said, trying to shield himself from the redhead’s intoxicating presence.
“I beg only that you allow Navia to accompany me to your home. She is a good worker and will do right by you.”
“I have compromised enough for one evening, woman.”
The redhead laid her hand upon his arm again, but this time he did not pull away. “If you do this for me, I will come with you freely.”
Brutus felt his cheeks flame, and his skin burned where her hand lay upon his forearm. Why did this woman affect him so? Lylith would throw a tantrum like no other. He would not hear the end of it. So why, then, was he saying yes?
“Just this one.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 5
Syra removed her hand from her new owner’s arm and averted her eyes. Her throat flared from the platitudes she had just uttered. How greatly she resented bowing before a Roman, but what else could she have done?
She should despise everything about the man who stood in front of her, from his dark curls to his bold nose and strong jawline. Even a day ago, Syra would rather run him through with a pike rather than obediently serve him, yet his kind eyes had soothed her tongue, and she had accomplished more with careful words than she ever could with a sword.
Glad that he moved away, Syra felt Navia squeeze her hand.
“Thank you,” the girl whispered.
Leaving the auction pavilion and moving onto the boulevard was nothing more than a blur. The servant led the others to the east, whereas her new master led them to a large litter. Syra had broken nearly every taboo between a slave and her master, yet she knew that Navia could barely stand upright, let alone walk to this man’s mansion.
“Sire,” Syra softened her voice to make it sound like she truly meant the title.
The dark-haired man turned to her with a look of mild annoyance upon his face. “What else could you ask of me?”
“Navia is weak from starvation. May she ride inside? I shall lend my shoulder to the burden.”
Syra had a difficult time reading the man’s face. A look passed over his features. Then he turned back toward the litter. “You both may ride.”
Shocked, Syra stumbled as she helped Navia into the litter. The servants who bore the weight of the conveyance looked equally surprised. Why was this Roman being so gracious? Did he think she meant that she would give her body to him freely? Did he think he bought himself a personal whore? If he did, the man would find out how very wrong he was in short order.
* * *
Brutus kept his eyes averted and worked on the parchment as they slowly made their way across the city. Not quickly enough, the men lowered the litter at his home. He bolted from the conveyance without waiting for his bearers to lend a hand. Numbers were not quite as distracting as he had hoped.
Without looking behind him, Brutus led his two acquisitions to the servants’ quarters. The cook, Fiona, was the first to appear. Brutus quickly shuffled the two women into her care. It was too painful to stand near the redhead. The Northerner’s aroma made his nostrils flare and his groin stir.
Brutus was a senator, and he took his station very seriously. He was to act as a moral pillar to the commoners. It would not do to have such thoughts and feelings when he so openly criticized others for such crude behavior.
Retreating as he always did from his warring emotions, Brutus sought shelter in his library. Yet he did not make it down a single hallway before another servant called to him.
“Sire! There is a guest. He would not wait in the lounge,” the young stable boy, Tiberius, called out as he ran to meet Brutus.
There was no reason to ask who might be so audacious. Brutus already knew the identity of his visitor. Yet the boy shook with worry.
“Do not fret, Tiberius. I will see to him.”
The stable boy sighed with relief and ran back down the hallway without waiting for a formal dismissal. Brutus let Tiberius have his quick escape. Someone ought to be at ease in this house.
Entering his study, Brutus did not bother to acknowledge the older man sitting in his chair. Long ago, Cicero was Brutus’ tutor, but the older man never quite accepted that the role should have been left aside years past. The old consul still felt that he could debate Brutus into compliance.
“I am glad to see that you are still keeping abreast of the Empire’s status,” Cicero said as he sifted through Brutus’ papers. The reference to Brutus’ absence at this morning’s senatorial session none too well hidden.
“I was there,” Brutus stated simply.
“Then you know of Caesar’s betrayal!”
“I know of his arrogance.”
Cicero was like a cat upon a hobbled mouse. “It goes far beyond human arrogance! You have no idea the goings-on in the palace.”
“I know that—”
“Did you know that Caesar is submitting a bill that would allow him to marry as many women as he wished to sire male heirs?”
This did give Brutus pause. He had no idea Caesar was planning such a thing, and he knew that it showed on his face. Still, Caesar’s life was his own. What did such a thing matter to Brutus? “It is none of my concern.”
“You do not care that Cleopatra’s son would become heir to all of Rome?”
“Cicero, as always, you are prone to exaggeration.”
The older man sneered as he rose and crossed the room. “You saw his impertinence! Watch, within the fortnight, Julius will seek the crown. You may set your calendar by it.”
Cicero spoke with such conviction that Brutus found himself hard-pressed to argue. Caesar had been talking grandly of late. Julius did not hold the Republic in such high regard as Brutus. If they bent the constitution much more for the Imperator, it would shatter beyond recovery. Brutus was not foreign to these facts. He just had faith that Caesar would never cross that threshold.
In this moment, though, with Julius’ latest scheme fresh in his mind and Symphia’s warning words, Brutus worried if he were not overly optimistic.
“And you would seek to block this polygamous bill?” he asked.
Cicero snorted. “Why would I do that? Brutus, you must elongate your view.”
Not liking his old mentor’s tone, he lashed back. “My sight is long enough to know that you plot treason.”
“I plot your ascension to the throne!” Cicero shouted back, slamming his hand upon the mahogany desk.
Unconsciously, Brutus took a step back. “What do you speak?”
Cicero paced the room, obviously agitated by his own words. “Once Caesar has passed this bill, we can leverage him into acknowledging you as his firstborn. Brutus, you would be first in line for his inheritance.”
&nb
sp; Brutus sat down upon the silk-covered settee. Cicero could not be serious. He had no ambition for a throne, and he said so. “I would decline.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Anger burned in Brutus’ throat. His old mentor had gone too far. “I have had enough of you and your opinions for one day, Cicero. Please find your own way out.”
“Brutus,” Cicero appealed in a much more subtle tone. “Just think on this overnight. Think of all that you could do with that power. You could restore the old order. Bring the Republic back to its glory. We all trust that you would strengthen the Senate and Assembly. There is not one of us who would oppose your ascension.”
Before Brutus could reply, Cicero exited the room. His sandals scuffed along the stone floor until Brutus shut the door behind him. How had he arrived at such a juncture? Brutus did not ask to be Caesar’s bastard, nor did he ask to be the champion of the Republic. Could no one else understand this?
In Rome these days, there was no gray area where one could take shelter. One either cast his die with Caesar, or plotted to betray the general. Brutus felt like the fulcrum in a grinder. If he tipped the wrong way, he would be ground under the Fates’ weight, just as wheat beneath a stone wheel.
* * *
Syra and Navia followed the cook into yet another room. The mansion was so large that she became certain she would become lost just emptying the chamber pot. The soft woman finally led them to a large bathing chamber.
“Normally, Lylith insists we servants use the commoners’ bath, but given your condition, I do not think Brutus would mind you two washing the fil… The dirt from your hair.”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 6