This woman talked so casually about their master. Even calling him by his given name. Was it somehow a sign of disrespect?
Frowning, Syra searched the room for a fire or at least a coal pit, but there was none. Despite the lack of a source of heat, the water in the huge bath steamed thickly. Trying not to seem ignorant, Syra did not ask how this marvel was accomplished.
“How many slaves does this Brutus have?” Syra asked, as she helped Navia down onto a wooden slat bench.
“Brutus? None. The bulk of us bought our freedom long ago. Lylith, however, seems to delight in them. But if you do a good job, respect Brutus, and do not betray his trust, he will protect you.”
Syra had no intention of staying that long. Once she got Navia settled and learned the lay of the city, Syra planned to slip out and never come back. Rome’s siren call was already loud in her ear. There were plenty of opportunities for a woman with her skills, either as a hired sword or professional thief. She did not care which at this point. Anything to get her away from this senator who pretended to care for his servants.
Fiona wiped her hands on her blue apron. “I have dinner to make. You two get cleaned up.” The cook glanced over at the frail young woman on the bench. “It’s not common, but I will bring plates to your room if you wish to lie down.”
Syra gave a tight smile to the older woman. Perhaps if Syra had not spent her life hating all things Roman, she might have appreciated the cook’s kindness. But after all that had happened, Syra trusted no one. Fiona would most likely stab them in the back if given the chance. Her generosity was nothing more than a ruse—of this Syra was certain.
Navia’s fingers fumbled trying to undress.
“Here, let me help,” Syra said to the younger woman.
As the Northerner removed Navia’s clothes, she noticed that the younger woman’s stomach was no longer flat. The tiniest bulge made its presence known. Soon Navia’s condition would become obvious. Syra finished undressing the young Spaniard and helped the girl into the tub.
“Will you not join me?”
Shaking her head, Syra answered, “No. Those wounds of yours need to be cleansed. Sit back.”
“Can the water not be a bit warmer?” Navia asked tentatively.
Pouring water over the girl’s hair, Syra paused. Navia seemed oblivious to her own condition. The poor woman was still in shock from the loss of her husband.
Carefully rubbing a bar of soap into Navia’s tangled mat of hair, Syra answered. “No. It would not be safe.”
“Safe? My muscles want nothing more than to sit in a vat of steam.”
“Perhaps, but not in your condition.” Before Navia could question her, Syra explained slowly and deliberately so that the younger woman could absorb the news. “I fear that you are with child, Navia. In your weakened state, too-warm water could hurt your growing baby.”
Navia spun around to face Syra. “I could not be—” The younger woman stuttered, “It’s been almost three months since... since...” Navia placed a hand upon her tender abdomen. “Could it be?”
The girl looked up at Syra with tears brimming. Continuing to cleanse Navia’s hair, Syra nodded. “It is true, child.”
At first the young woman just sat there, staring out across the room to the northern window. Soon the tears came. Then the girl doubled over, sobbing so very hard that Syra feared Navia would harm herself. Still, the Northerner did not interrupt. The woman deserved a good cry. This child was a mixed blessing. Navia would have a part of her husband forever, but the baby would remind the girl of all that she had lost.
Letting Navia cry, Syra quietly scrubbed the younger woman’s blistered feet and picked the rope fibers from her chafed ankles.
Finally, once the girl was cried out and her hair brushed free of its knots, Syra helped Navia out of the tub. Taking a simple cotton toga down from the wall, Syra helped dress the younger woman in clean clothes. “Now get to bed. I will make sure that Fiona fetches you dinner.”
“Let me help with—”
Syra placed a hand on the girl’s bony wrist. “I cannot rest until I know you are tucked in, Navia. Please, if not for me, for your child.”
Suddenly, the younger woman launched herself at Syra. The Northern raised a hand to block the assault, but realized Navia only meant to embrace her. The girl wrapped her arms around Syra and buried her face into the Northerner’s own tangled hair.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Navia kept repeating until Syra gently pushed the girl back.
“To bed.”
This time Navia obeyed, leaving Syra alone in the bath. The Northerner found a strange lever and tentatively pulled it. Hot water bubbled up into the bath, causing the room to fill with steam. Syra smiled. She did not have to worry as Navia did.
Ripping off her soiled rags, Syra slipped into the tub. Her skin screamed from the shock of the water, but her body sagged to the bottom. Holding her breath, Syra dunked her head under the hot water and gasped as she came up.
Leaning back against the smooth tile, Syra looked around the room. It was simple, yet had elegance to it. Large windows were carved into the walls, giving the bather a view of both the stars above and the lush gardens below. Torches illuminated the thick jungle-like vegetation that seemed barely contained by the stone walls.
Closing her eyes, Syra let the hum of insects lull her into relaxation. With the hot water cocooning her and the air buzzing with the sounds of nature, Syra could almost believe she was back in her homeland.
* * *
Brutus rubbed his eyes and laid his quill down. The parchment under his hand blurred, and his nervous energy had just about run itself out. One could only spend so much time studiously avoiding that which you most wanted to think about.
To make matters worse, Brutus had two subjects that he had to fend off. The fate of the Empire strained his heart, but the redhead stirred his body. Did he not have enough problems that he had to bring them to his doorstep?
A faint smile rose when he thought of Lylith’s reaction to the fiery Northerner. Perhaps this was just the thing to send his wife off forever. They already had separate bedchambers. No, they lived in completely separate wings. They only saw one another when his wife forced her company upon him. Lylith had his title. Could she not be content with that?
Rising, Brutus stretched his legs. Horat was still not home. He would have to compensate his loyal servant for such an arduous task. Brutus himself would not wish to face down the daunting clerks at the Office of the Engineers. This redhead had best be worth the expense.
Brutus frowned. How could the Northerner be worth the expense when he did not even know why he had bought her? Horat was right. The bold woman could never pass for a handmaiden. Then what was her role in the household?
Chiding himself for his mental lapse, Brutus swore again not to think upon the woman until he had a night’s rest. He hoped his thoughts would clear in the morning. Rubbing his aching shoulders, Brutus left his study and made his way toward the bathing chamber. He could smell dinner cooking. The aroma was that of basted lamb with scallions. Fiona must have known his mood, for she cooked his most favorite meal. Perhaps a relaxing bath before eating would temper his foul mood.
Exiting the house via a side door, Brutus chose to take the garden route. He needed nature’s pleasant hum to soothe his constitution. Today had been most taxing. Brutus did not know which was worse—the Republic somehow depending on him to run yet another day, or the woman who churned his blood.
Opening the small door into the bathing house, Brutus stopped.
Syra stood with her back toward him, brushing her hair. He could not find words. It was not the breathtaking beauty of her alabaster skin, or the perfect curve of her buttocks that stalled his tongue. It was the crisscrossing of scars both large and small. The reddish markings were an elaborate spider web across her perfectly proportioned back. Barely containing an urge to run a comforting finger down one especially purple scar, Brutus tried to step out of the room,
but Syra turned.
The woman had draped a gauze over her body, but it did little to hide her full form. Syra’s gaze was steady and unashamed. She seemed to dare him to make an issue of her nearly naked presence. Brutus felt himself blush under her stare. It was as if he himself were the one unclothed.
Trying to salvage some of his dignity, Brutus made an effort to sound like he was the master, and she the servant. “This is my private area. The common bathhouse is down the hill.”
Syra shrugged as she wrapped a linen dress around her waist. Brutus should have told her that the item was one of his, but he liked the idea of having his fabric next to her bare skin.
“Fiona said that you would not mind this evening if we used your bath. Obviously the cook was mistaken. The trespass will not occur again.”
Brutus felt like a pompous ass, but could hardly back down. At the same time, he needed her out of the room quickly, for he did not wish his growing arousal to be noticed. “I should hope not.”
The woman inclined her head ever so slightly, and Brutus felt sure this was Syra’s version of a bow. Then the Northerner turned to leave. As much as he wanted her to go, Brutus could not let the exchange end like this. “I will send my physician in the morning to look at those wounds.”
“If it pleases you, sire,” Syra said, even though it was obvious that pronouncing those words pained her. “Navia needs the attention more so.”
“He will tend to both of you.”
Did Syra think he would allow the injured to go untended? Brutus could only imagine what she thought of him, and for the most part he had proved her right this evening.
A look passed between them, and then she answered curtly, “Thank you.”
Her wet hair dripped down upon her dress, making the material nearly transparent against her skin. Before more of her luscious figure was revealed and Brutus completely lost control of his desires, he dismissed her. He could not help but turn and watch her retreat through the door. Once she was gone, it was as if a pile of hot coals had suddenly been extinguished. The air had a chill to it that Brutus had not noticed.
Walking over, he dipped a finger in the bathwater and was surprised to find that it was still quite warm. How hot had the woman had it before? Brutus added just a touch more hot water, then climbed in himself. The faintest scent of Syra wafted off the surface. Already he could recognize the Northerner’s aroma.
Sinking into the water, Brutus realized why he had purchased the red-haired beauty. It was for just this reason. His pulsed raced, and feelings surged through his veins that he had thought forever atrophied. For this one skill, Syra was worth her weight in rubies.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 6
Entering her room, Syra found a tray laden with food. Lamb was perhaps her least favorite meat, but she bolted down the first few pieces without even tasting it. Looking over, she found Navia curled up in a ball. The Spaniard snored lightly. It seemed that the young woman needed unmolested sleep more than nutrition right now. Fiona had supplied more than enough food for both, so Syra ate her fill and was still able to leave plenty for the girl when she awoke.
Restless and having no desire to sleep, Syra threw on a cloak and headed out into the gardens. She had not known a furnished home since before she could remember. Camps by firelight on a campaign. Stalls in a barn if she were lucky. Where she rested her head was her home. A new village, a new valley, a new country nearly every day. How could people anchor themselves to only one place, even if it were a palace? The oxcart had felt more homelike than this sprawling estate.
She climbed a slight hill and stumbled to a stop, as all of Rome lay beneath her. The lights from the city nearly outshone the stars themselves. Syra felt tears sting her eyes. Despite her acute distaste for everything Roman, the sight before her was untarnished beauty.
“I come here to remind myself why I must strive so hard,” a voice stated behind her.
Syra did not bother to turn. She already knew Brutus’ voice. The timbre of his tone seemed just a bit deeper and richer than other men’s. Must he follow her everywhere? Syra forgot to blunt her words before they spilled from her lips. “Is this your private area also?”
Brutus walked up alongside her and gave a tight grin. “I deserved your rebuke. I was harsh earlier. For that, I am sorry.”
For a moment they stood in silence. Syra did not know what to say. She desperately wanted to cut him to the quick for all his faults and the flaws of his country, but no quips would come to her tongue.
Why did she feel so flustered? The man had no weapon, and there was no threat to her life. Yet blood surged in her ears, and she could feel her muscles ready for action. It was as if the dreams had now taken hold during her waking hours. But which of the dreams? Did she need to ready herself for battle, or a fight of another kind?
“Have you ever visited Rome before?” Brutus asked, as if Syra were his most special guest rather than a freshly purchased slave.
“Never,” she spat, angered more at herself for softening to the senator’s tone.
“You are not a friend of Rome?” Brutus smiled sadly.
She did not answer. Instead, she held out her wrists that were still laced with fresh wounds from her slave bindings.
“Nothing in the world is perfect,” Brutus replied.
“That is not what the friends of Rome say.”
Brutus chuckled. “Perhaps I can help you understand us better?” Her master sat down upon a wooden bench and motioned for her to join him.
The thought of having him so near made her hands clammy. Syra did not understand why, but she knew it was a feeling she disliked greatly. “I had best get back inside.”
“Please? A quick tour of the city so that you might understand our history a bit?”
Damn this man. Could he not be insufferable? Could he not be rude, or at the very least curt with her? Why was he extending her such courtesy?
Hatred was a much more familiar emotion. Uncertainty felt awkward, and let the dream’s haze settle over her vision. For she very much wished to know all about this Rome. Syra found herself sitting down as she justified her desire that if one day she wished to run, it was best to have a good lay of the land, and who better to give it to her than the master she was running away from?
* * *
Brutus had no idea what had gotten hold of his tongue. To sit here and explain Rome to a new slave? Perhaps his mother was right. He had been dropped on his head as a babe. No matter the cause, here he was, sharing a beautiful evening with this most intoxicating woman.
Too many seconds must have passed as he basked in her elixir, for Syra looked at him with anticipation.
“Yes. Let’s see…” Brutus scanned the horizon. They could not have picked a better evening for such a task. There was not a cloud in the sky, and one could see past even the city gates clearly. Now that the dust had settled from the day’s commotion, Rome was once again the crown jewel of civilization.
Syra cleared her throat. “Where are we now?”
“Ah, this is Palatine Hill.”
“This is where the gentry live?”
For some reason, Brutus felt strangely ashamed to answer yes to such a question. “These estates hold most of the senators and a few of the richer merchants.”
Down the hill, a few homes still had their garden torches lit. “There. That is Marc Antony’s. That one is Longius, my brother-in-law—’ ” Brutus abruptly stopped his narrative. He wanted no reference to his wife this eve.
Syra pointed to the northern hill that housed the Forum and state temples. “What hill is that?”
“Capitoline Hill. See the bright fire?”
Syra nodded, causing a lock of hair to fall from its tie and play against her neck. Once again, Brutus’ tongue was silent as he watched the breath enter and leave her chest.
“The fire?” Syra asked with that husky voice of hers.
“Yes, sorry. The fire. It is the sacred Fire of Vesta.”
“
Goddess of the Hearth?”
“Exactly. It is attended night or day by at least one Virgin.” Normally he would have said a single virgin, but with the events of the day, Brutus was certain many stood in attendance this eve. To have the fire extinguished would truly throw Rome into turmoil.
“These Virgins, are they slaves?”
Brutus shook his head. While this woman spoke Latin, it was obvious that she was very naïve to the workings of Rome.
“Nay. By constitutional order, the Virgins must be of free birth.”
Brutus did not mention that in the not-so-distant past, the Virgins had been required to be of noble, senatorial birth. But in these times, finding a virtuous, affluent virgin who did not hunger for a wealthy husband was nearly impossible, so the constitution had been modified to allow any of free birth. Brutus was certain that within his lifetime, even that restriction might be lifted. That is, if they wished true virgins to attend the fire.
Unaware of Brutus’ inner dialogue, the woman simply nodded. Tiny beads of water ran down her damp hair. Syra must have noticed his gaze, for she quickly wiped the offending strand away, exposing her deeply sunburnt neck. Brutus’ own skin stung in sympathy. Sitting here, it was so easy to forget the two very different worlds they came from. Nothing could change the fact that he was a senator, and she a slave.
Despite his body’s reluctance to move from Syra’s side, Brutus rose. “I have much work to attend to this eve.”
Syra got to her feet as well and seemed only too willing to leave his company. “I should retire as well.”
Even though his intention had been to leave her hypnotic presence, Brutus found himself asking, “Would you like to join me for dinner?”
“Nay. I have already eaten.”
Watching Syra leave, Brutus knew his heart was in danger of the most acute nature, for this woman was always one step ahead.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 7