* * * * *
CHAPTER 7
Syra bolted upright. Even though she knew herself to be awake, a dream still held her within its clutches. The image was more vivid than most events she had seen in bright sunlight. Only a dark foreboding tainted this dream. A subterranean temple hewn of granite. A dark rite performed.
With each blink, the more the image receded. Without the constant rumbling of the oxcart that had become almost soothing, Syra felt unhinged. Nor was she lying on a rough wool cloak, her back hard against the rocky ground, as it had been for years on campaigns.
Her hands felt the smooth linen sheets, but it took her mind a few moments to realize that the soft cushion was a bed. Not just any bed, but one within a senator’s mansion. She was a slave.
Panic rose as she realized that Navia was nowhere to be found. The tray of food had been removed, and her friend’s bed was made as if the girl had never slept there. Had they taken Navia in the night? Had Brutus recanted and sold the Spaniard to the whorehouse?
Jumping from the bed, not caring what state of disarray she was in, Syra searched the hallways for someone, anyone, to ask. How her hands missed the weight of metal. She would give anything for a solid sword.
The house was unnervingly quiet. After months on the road with snorting oxen and shouting men, the silence disturbed her. The sudden noise of pans clanging caught Syra’s attention, and she turned back the way she’d come.
This mansion was maddening. It was so large that sounds bounced off the thick walls. You could not stalk a noise as you would in the open field.
Tense, Syra turned another corner and found a warm kitchen. Fiona bustled about, her dark hair flecked with flour. The woman did not stop her cooking as Syra stepped into the room.
“So you decided to return from Hades, eh?” Fiona chuckled at her own joke as she continued to knead the thick dough.
The cook’s joviality did not impress Syra. Fiona had been birthed by Roman loins after all. No matter her smile or warm words, the woman was suspect.
“Where is Navia?”
“The girl you came with? She is down at the laundry with Heffan.”
“Where is this laundry?”
Fiona stopped working the dough and looked up at her. “If you are going to range about the property, you might want to put a comb through that tangle of hair. Or is that how you Northerners prefer it?”
Syra caught a reflection of herself in the copper pots hanging overhead. Her red hair sprouted overnight into a frightful rat’s nest. Despite her embarrassment, Syra still feared for her friend.
Fiona must have sensed her anxiety, for the cook’s tone softened. “Do not worry, child. The girl is fine. She wished to stretch her legs and learn her new tasks. That is all.”
Syra found it hard to believe that Navia had voluntarily risen this morning. The girl had been in far worse shape than Syra. Navia should be in bed.
“I can do—”
The cook went back to massaging the sticky dough. “Heffan will not tax the girl. Not in her delicate condition.”
Syra’s back tensed. How could they know? Fear rose again. “She will recover from her wounds.”
“Of course she will, but that belly of hers is only going to grow.” Fiona must have seen the look of surprise in Syra’s eyes. “Please, child. Navia is thinner than a whipped puppy, yet her belly bulges. She is cooking something of her own.”
Again, Fiona chuckled as Syra tried to judge the pleasant-sounding cook. Could she trust her? Syra finally sighed. If Fiona did not betray Navia’s pregnancy, the Spaniard’s own belly would in a few short weeks. It would be best to discover the temperament of this household now. The key would be her new master’s reaction to the news. Then she would know just how Roman this Brutus was.
Fiona motioned Syra out of the way as she placed the dough into a large brick oven. “Get going, girl. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Dinner?” Syra asked. Where had breakfast and supper gone?
“Aye, child. You slept through the day. Now off with you.”
“That cannot be!”
Fiona nodded toward the open door. “If you don’t believe me, check the sundial. It will not lie.”
The cook breezed out of the room, leaving Syra to stand awkwardly in the empty kitchen. Still not believing Fiona, Syra exited the door, which opened into a small courtyard.
In the center stood the promised sundial. The sight took her breath from her lungs. Unbidden, her hand reached out to touch the rough wooden surface. As much as she refused to accept such a thing, there stood a relic from her homeland. A piece of her heritage nestled in a very Roman courtyard. Most unwelcome tears sprang to her eyes.
How her heart ached for Scotland. The wood had been painted the darkest green in remembrance of the lush forests she had roamed as a child. Feeling the delicate texture of the carving, Syra could imagine the sweet mist in her face. Moist locks would cling to her neck, making her wild hair almost tame. To have the calming fog greet you in the morn rather than this blasted sun every day, now that would heal her far faster than any balm the physician could prescribe.
Tracing the outline of the figure, Syra wondered once again why she had ever left her homeland. Why had she fled her beloved country the moment she could lift a sword? What had she thought she would find?
After a decade of traveling the world, Syra had found no land more beautiful than the rolling hills of Isles. But how could she have known at such a tender age that the best mutton in the world would be the scraps she stole from MacDoull’s Inn?
Syra had lived the life she had always imagined, even finding her feet upon Rome’s soil, yet her gut yearned for more. It felt as if there were still something to be done. Something more to be fulfilled. Despite this vague sense of unease, her heart wished for nothing more than to watch the gray fog billowing in from the ocean and wash over her road-weary body. To have rich ale to drink and thick potatoes in your belly was a delicacy that Rome could never match. Tears poured from her eyes as she remembered all that she had lost.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Brutus asked from behind her.
Syra froze. This new master of hers had the worst sense of timing. Not wishing to expose her tear-streaked cheeks, Syra only nodded. Her heart was too full of pain to answer him properly.
“I bought it in Greece last year. The merchant said it was an original from the Northern lands. Did he speak the truth, or was it a ruse to drive up the price?”
Trying to keep her anguish from her voice, she answered. “Nay. It hails from Scotland.”
Syra could feel the air stir as Brutus came up alongside. Why did she take a quick breath every time his flesh wandered near? Why could she not hate him the way she should?
From the corner of her eye, Syra watched Brutus examine the sundial. She wished to remove her hand from the artifact, but a part of her could not. The wood was too real a reminder of her home. She could not yet let go.
“How can you be sure?” Brutus asked.
“The carving—”
Accidentally letting a sniffle through, Syra tried to deepen her voice. “It is done only by the Druids. No one else could bring such detail…” Syra let her voice trail off. She could say no more without betraying the wound on her soul.
“A Druid? Really?” Brutus’ finger traced the outline of the dial. “They call him the Green Man, do they not?”
Syra looked down at the dark figure. How could she explain her homeland’s god to a Roman? The Green Man was not a kind or friendly deity, but he promised life that sprang not from high atop a distant mountain, but from the earth itself. He did not need a temple or a sacrifice.
No, the Green Man needed only fertile ground and a bit of spring water to grace his subjects. There was all of this to tell and so much more, but Syra was certain that this cosmopolitan Roman would never understand such primitive urges.
“That is one of his names.”
Brutus smiled casually. “This truly is a fine piece.
I hope the carver made as much from his work as the merchant said he did.”
Syra tensed, but did not voice her anger. Yet Brutus must have sensed her change in mood, for his face clouded.
“Is something wrong?”
“This homage was made by a priest, sir. Most likely as a symbol of protection for a relative.”
“Oh. It was meant to be an heirloom?”
Once again, Syra became frustrated with all of Rome. Could they not understand that items such as this were not possessions with a golden value? Could Brutus not see that this was as much a part of the family as one’s own soul? “Yes, it was meant to be kept at the hearth.”
“Perhaps they fell upon hard times or—”
Syra’s temper flared. “No one would have given this emblem voluntarily.”
Brutus’ tone quieted. “I am sorry. I did not know this piece had been plundered.” He touched her cheek and turned her face to look into his eyes. “I would not have bought it had I known.”
Just as quickly as her anger billowed, it blew out. While she gravely distrusted her Roman master, her heart believed the man. Syra found herself opening a bit of her pain to him.
“It was not meant to be a sundial. It is an emblem of protection. This…makes it seem…” She could not continue her explanation, as her throat constricted with unshed tears.
“I will rectify that.”
His hand fell away from her cheek, and Syra realized how warm and comforting it had been. She missed it already as he backed away a step.
“I am heading to the market.”
Syra bowed, realizing she was being dismissed.
Brutus took a single step toward the door, then turned back. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“I…” Syra stumbled over her answer as her hands flew up to her tousled hair. She had every reason to say no. She had every reason to stay as far away from this man as possible, yet her lips formed her acceptance. “If you wish. I only need a few moments to prepare.”
Brutus nodded. “The litter will be waiting.”
* * *
Dear gods, what had he been thinking? Brutus chided himself once again as he headed to his study. He had meant to slip out the back door and head to the market for his offering to the god, Pan. Tonight was the Lupercalia, a celebration to honor the Greek god of mischief.
With Horat summoned back to the Temple of Mars to fill out yet more acquisition forms, Brutus was forced to do his own shopping this afternoon. He had planned a very brief trip down the hill, but now the outing took on a far greater scope.
Brutus had much to do this day, and he had been determined to keep his head clear. Only with a crisp mind could he hope to sort out the mess that the Fates had dealt. Brutus had made a promise to himself and the great goddess Minerva that he would not lay eyes upon the Northerner until his heart was resolved toward Caesar. Yet here he was not half a day later, going to market with the blasted redhead.
But how could he leave the Northerner like that? Her pain was so sharp that Brutus felt his own eyes sting. Syra had much about her that drew his heart in deeper and deeper. Looking into her eyes for a single second had broken his resolve. His heart wavered, and his tongue had betrayed him. But what stories this slave could tell! He knew her soul’s breadth to be wider than any he had known.
Last evening, Brutus had hoped that this woman to be a temporary enigma—that his hunger at the slave market would be quenched after a good night’s sleep. How many times had he met a lovely woman, someone he had thought would fascinate him, only to have her utter a lone word that squashed any desire? Usually it took only a single course at dinner to make Brutus wish he were somewhere very far away. Yet every second he spent with this Northerner brought dozens of questions and the burning desire to discover the answers.
Since childhood, Brutus had carefully constructed his life to be plain and simple. Straightforward and predictable. A day ago he would have sworn on all that was holy that love would never affect his life. That physical desire would play no part in his decisions. Yet in the time that it took to inhale once, Minerva’s beloved logic was demolished by Venus’ passion.
* * *
Syra tugged even harder at her hair. A sharp pain preceded a large clump of hair coming out in the whale-tooth comb. What had she thought? Telling Brutus she would be only a moment? It would take her half a day to untangle her angry hair. To exasperate her even further, Fiona hurried in.
“Child, you must hurry! The markets close at sundown!”
Syra showed the cook the handful of hair she had pulled out.
Fiona chided her playfully. “You barbarians! Change into this, then we shall fix your hair.”
Syra could not believe what the cook offered. It was a gown that only women who were painted onto murals would wear. A garment for another woman, going to a far more prestigious outing than the market. Syra tried to shove the material back at Fiona, but the cook would have none of it.
“Dress!”
“I am dressed!”
“Brutus is a senator, Syra. No matter how you feel, at his rank, appearances must be kept up. It would not do for him to be seen with a…a…”
“A?” Syra asked, shame thick in her voice, fearing that the cook would pronounce the dreaded word, slave.
Fiona exhaled in frustration. “Such a scoundrel. Now put this on.”
This dress was for a fine lady, not one bound by chains just yesterday. “It is not mine, Fiona.”
The cook ignored her and tugged at the clasp of Syra’s wrinkled toga.
Syra’s voice trembled. “Brutus will be angered to see me in—”
“Shush, child. Lylith discarded it two winters ago before she even wore it. Brutus will be glad to have someone enjoy the craftsmanship he spent gold coins on.”
“This is not right,” Syra lamented.
Fiona took hold of both her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Listen to me. This household has had little joy since the war. Do not deprive us of this small extravagance.”
Navia entered, carrying a sash of the most brilliant green. The silk slid through the young girl’s fingers and fluttered to the floor, looking as if a thousand leaves had fallen onto the tile. Not wanting Navia to strain herself, Syra knelt over and picked up the fine material. It was softer than anything she had felt. The sash was cool to the touch, bringing gooseflesh along her arm. How could anyone weave such a fabric? Did the gods themselves sew the garment?
When Syra looked up, she found Fiona looking quite satisfied with herself. “Now will you get dressed?”
Still, she was reluctant to don such festive attire. Who was she to wear such clothing? Syra did not think she would know how to walk in such a dress. Syra preferred coarse wool and thick leather.
Navia touched her arm gently. “Please.”
“But—”
“Syra, you have done so much. Let me do this for you.”
She could not deny the younger girl’s request, and submitted to their ministrations—only giving a yip when Fiona took a tuck a bit too tight.
“I told Brutus I would only be a moment.”
Fiona waved off Syra’s concerns. “He is a man. He is used to waiting for women.”
Despite the cook’s reassurance, Syra felt her trepidation grow. She was not really a woman, was she? For her adult life, Syra had been a warrior—her womanhood hidden deep within the folds of her leather. She never revealed it to the world. Since her early adolescence, Syra had passed as a man. Her body was accustomed to being bound and controlled. Not loose and flowing as this dress. Is this how women the world over felt? Is this how Syra wanted to feel?
Navia cajoled the Northerner’s wild mane, while the cook made sure each of the gown’s folds fell perfectly. Finally, the other women backed away, seeming content.
Syra squirmed under their scrutiny. “Well?”
Navia beamed with a pride that made her sallow cheeks pink. “You shall eclipse the sun, Syra.”
“I a
m presentable, then?”
“Aye,” Fiona said appreciatively, then scooted Syra to the door. “Go! You must not keep him waiting too long.”
* * *
Brutus might have been vexed any other time. He had sat out upon the hot bench for what seemed like an hour—an hour that he might have been working on his wheat tallies. By Mercury, he could have gone to the market and been back by now.
Why then, did he wait? And why was he not upset with Syra? If this were Lylith… Well, there was no point in extrapolating. He never would have waited a single minute for his wife.
But the sun dipped dangerously close to the horizon. If Syra did not appear soon, he would be forced to go to the market by himself. And suddenly that no longer appealed to him. Solitude had always been his solace. There was no greater company to him than silence. Yet today, he wished nothing more than to hear Syra’s husky voice.
Rising to pace again, Brutus stopped halfway as Syra entered. It was as if Helen descended from Troy. If it were not for her fiery red hair and brilliant green eyes, Brutus might not have recognized his recently purchased slave. The gown was the color of softly sifted cinnamon, while the sash that covered one shoulder was the color of an emerald held up to the sun’s rays. Her flowing locks were swept up off of her neck into a cascading tower of curls. Syra’s wild hair was artfully constrained by the finest gold braid.
The Northerner had no need for the layers of powders that his wife usually favored. Syra’s cheeks had a blush of their own, her lips a natural, deep red. It was hard to imagine that just yesterday the woman was encrusted with mud and covered in rags. Dressed such as this, Syra could easily enter a palace feast and have a dozen suitors press down upon her.
“Is it not to your standard?” Syra asked.
Brutus stumbled over his answer. Up to his standard? He did not even know that a woman could look so radiant. Syra had far surpassed any expectation he had ever had. But he could not find the words to articulate his amazement.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 8