“Shall I change?”
“No.” Brutus might have been tongue-tied, but he was quite emphatic on that point. Trying to cover his embarrassment, he motioned toward the litter. “We had best be going.”
Syra hung back, however. “Might we walk? My legs would like to feel solid ground beneath them.”
And what lovely legs they were, Brutus thought, but kept his tongue from straying. Once again, he could think of nothing intelligible to speak, so he simply walked down the path, hoping that Syra followed. They were far down the Hill where the residential path emptied into the Sacred Way before Brutus’ heart began beating at a normal pace. Syra’s presence was like a beacon on a stormy night. It took another few moments before he finally regained the use of his tongue.
“How does Rome compare in the day?”
Syra sounded a bit overwhelmed. “Busier.”
Brutus was so used to the bustling crowds that he had not even thought that the pressing traffic might bother the Northerner.
“Here,” Brutus said as he extended his arm to her.
Syra looked at his elbow, but did not take it. Letting his arm fall to the side, Brutus tried to act reserved, for he was far more disappointed than he had any right to be.
Covering the awkward silence that descended, Brutus spoke. “Romulus has gathered together quite a city, has he not?”
“One man built all of this?” Syra asked, with a hint of awe.
“Nay. Rome was not built in a day.” Brutus could not help but chuckle. “All of this has taken over six hundred years to mold, and if it weren’t for a few geese, it might never have formed.”
Brutus watched as she gazed over the width and breadth of the city. For a woman whose posture spoke of world travels, her eyes sparkled with a naïveté that the senator found more attractive than a thousand painted courtesans.
As they continued down the Sacred Way, Syra asked, “Geese?”
Brutus pointed to the hill beyond the spiral of smoke that rose from the Vestals’ fire. “See that peak?” He continued once Syra’s eyes focused on the distant hill. “It is the Arx. One of its temples is named Juno Moneta.”
Syra’s head tilted, questioning. “She who warns?”
“Aye. When Rome was nothing but a flicker of Romulus’ imagination, enemy forces surrounded him. He and his people took shelter in a small fort they had built upon that high ground. They rested in preparation for the next morning’s battle.”
Brutus paused as he scanned the beauty next to him. They had come to a stop as Syra studied Capitoline Hill with interest. While most women would be bored by talk of old wars, Syra seemed captivated. Finally her eyes left the far-off hill, and she looked at him.
“They had few men, so they only guarded the gentle slope to the west. In the night, the enemy, whisper-quiet, scaled the steep side to the east.” Brutus pointed to the area. “It was only the luck of the Fates that his woman insisted upon keeping geese for the goddess Juno. The geese cried out in the night when the enemy forces were about to breach the gate.”
“They acted as sentries.”
“Aye. Juno’s temple was the first built once Romulus took control of the valley.”
“Why did the enemy not mount their attack from the south?” Syra pointed to the mild grade that made up the southern portion of the hill. “That would have been far easier to scale and would have been downwind of the stronghold.”
Brutus looked upon Syra with a greater appreciation. Not many generals he knew would have noticed such a thing. “Back in time, this entire area to the south was flooded with swamp. The trek would have been too laborious.”
Syra’s eyes dilated. “All this was underwater?”
“With the exception of this hill, aye.”
* * *
As they walked forward, Syra could not help but test the ground beneath her. It felt firm and solid. Even a bit dusty. How could all of this area have been submerged? How could man alter nature in such a way? How arrogant were these Romans? Syra had been to Stonehenge and felt the power of the gathering of those great rocks. She had been awed by their size and the effort that it took to assemble such a majestic ring.
This achievement, however, felt wrong. This was not a temple to nature. It was a shout in nature’s face that she was not the queen here. Rome was a city ruled by men, for men. That was certain. These Romans might pray to their gods. They might say how deeply they worshipped their deities, yet in the end, Rome was built for one purpose—to glorify Rome’s very human accomplishments.
Despite her selfish excesses, people still flocked to the huge city. Syra studied the crushing mass entering the market. She had traveled far and wide, yet had never seen the assortment of cultures that were crowded into the tiny stalls. Every morsel of the marketplace was utilized to the fullest. Even the homes lining the market had their stoops shaded, and small booths graced the steps.
There was a dark-skinned man, even darker and more mysterious than the African horsemen that Caesar had used, selling ivory. Another woman with a silk veil sold crystal bottles of perfume. A man with eyes as narrow as slits offered aphrodisiacs to all who came near. Syra could not understand the attraction. Did these immigrants not have farms to tend? Who was plowing the fields if they were here begging?
Anger felt hot in her throat. No matter Brutus’ kind demeanor, he was still a Roman through and through. It was obvious that he felt these affronts to nature were some kind of progress. All Syra saw was a people deluded that they could rule over heaven and earth.
In her travels, she had seen enough ancient ruins to know that even the greatest fell. Despite his domineering conquests, Alexander the Great was still very much dead in the ground—the Greek’s heart feeding the earth once again. Alexander’s vast empire had cracked and crumbled just like his bones. These Romans may not know it, but one day that grand wall that seemed so impenetrable would fall with a resounding crash. Syra only wished she could be there to see it.
* * *
Brutus could sense Syra’s unease, but he could not coax out the meaning. Instead of following close at hand cooing over the varied goods, the Northerner hung back, keeping her distance. Brutus had thought Syra would enjoy seeing the heart of Rome. The thriving market drew the entire world to the city’s bosom.
Nowhere else in all the lands could one browse the immense variety that could be found in this hectare of marketplace. He could not even tempt a smile out of her with Persian perfume. Brutus did not know how to react. Every other woman he knew would have swooned if he had offered to buy such a gift. Lylith would have squealed like a baby pig and ordered three for herself and another for his mother.
And if Syra were not impressed this day, she never would be awed. For the entire Forum Holitorium was crammed with vendors to supply the Lupercalia. Pan was an audacious and rowdy god who demanded men purchase equally expansive offerings.
At least that was what the priests of Pan’s cult would have everyone think. Brutus felt that this festival had descended into the lowest form of social jostling. Amongst the elite, the offerings were weighed and judged. You could lose years of hard-won status over a single erroneous gift. While others, who hovered on the edge of propriety, could vault into an acclaimed position based on a lavish offering.
Brutus had refused to lower himself to this subterranean groveling. Instead he used this opportunity to offer his faith in a very different way. Although Pan held little of his heart, Brutus felt an affinity to all the old gods. He used this festival to honor private moments of gratitude. Therefore, he avoided the gold baubles and sweet-scented silk.
Instead, Brutus bought herbs that had healed him when he had contracted the whooping cough as a child. He sifted through a hundred shops to purchase a small bow and arrow like the one Horat had given him upon his thirteenth birthday. Of course, Brutus still had to gather the usual tributes, such as a flute and a variety of choice meats, but overall he used this afternoon to offer the god a part of his life rather than his purs
e.
So engrossed was he in his thoughts that Brutus did not notice that Syra had wandered down the aisle. Rather than holding herself apart from the shops, Syra had taken an interest in a small stall, where she stood alone at a rickety table. Everyone else seemed to be avoiding this tiny vendor.
Intrigued, Brutus joined the Northerner. The offerings were meager and looked as if they had been dragged through mud before finding their way here, but Syra’s eyes would not leave the items.
Not wishing to disturb her deep thoughts, Brutus addressed the shopkeep. “What are these?” Brutus pointed to the ragged-looking flowers that were more akin to weeds than anything he would put into a vase.
It was not the wizened old woman who answered Brutus.
Instead, Syra’s voice sounded so heavy with sadness that he could barely bear it. “Thistle.”
Brutus waited, hoping that she would explain, but she abruptly turned from the table and rushed down the aisle. He turned to the shopkeep. “Where do these hail from?”
The woman had a toothless grin. “Scotland.”
With Syra disappearing from view, Brutus could not ask for further explanation. Lengthening his stride, Brutus caught up with the Northerner.
“Syra.” He put his hand upon her arm, but she jerked away. Before he could appease her anger, a young boy ran up.
“Senator Brutus?”
Despite his deep desire to comfort the Northerner, the boy was persistent. It took a moment, but Brutus recognized the youth as one of the assistants from the Temple of Saturn. “Yes?”
“You have been urgently requested at the Temple, sire.”
Syra had stopped a few feet away, her back turned to him. Brutus tried to shoo the runner away. “I shall be along.”
Brutus tried to close the distance to Syra, but the boy blocked his path. “Nay, sire. It regards the festival this eve.”
By now, several other shoppers craned their necks to listen in on the conversation. Ears pricked up for some indication of trouble at the heart of the Empire.
“All is in order, child. I will be there shortly.”
Brutus used a quiet tone, but the boy insisted on belting out his answers. “It is the wine merchant, sire. He will not deliver the wine until he speaks with you. There is issue with payment.”
The crowd stirred with worry. Brutus could feel a dozen eyes upon him. Brutus wished to tend to Syra, but another voice sounded from behind. “Pan would be most displeased if he did not have Greek wine from his cousin, Dionysus.”
Brutus groaned to find Marc Antony at his elbow.
The younger senator beamed, however. “And I think this crowd would be quite displeased with you, Brutus, if you did not attend to this matter with great efficiency.”
Julius’ first lieutenant might be young, but Brutus knew that Antony’s honeyed tongue could turn a group of quiet shoppers into an angry mob within a heartbeat. Brutus looked at Syra, who had turned to watch the exchange. Tears moistened her lashes, but the fire was back in her eyes.
“I must escort the lady home, then I shall—”
“Brutus, my heart’s brother,” Antony interrupted him. “You need not worry about the lady. I shall be happy to take the reins this evening.”
Blood pounded in Brutus’ ears. Before he could retort, Syra answered, “That will be acceptable.”
Antony extended an arm, which Syra took, unlike when Brutus had offered his own earlier in the day. Envy must have shown upon his face, for the young senator’s smile broadened as Antony guided Syra into the market.
All of the sounds of the merchants faded, and the glowing sunset dimmed. Syra’s back was the only sight Brutus could comprehend. Would she even give a glance back? Did she know how the tiniest gesture of taking Antony’s arm had wounded him?
Brutus would never know, for the boy dogged. “Sire, they said immediately.”
When he turned back, Antony and Syra had faded into the milling crowd. Not a single glimmer of her emerald sash could be found amongst the mass of shoppers. This wine merchant had surely picked the wrong day to press his negotiations.
Resigned to the Fates’ bitter lesson, Brutus followed the boy up the slope to Capitoline Hill. Someday he would find these Fates and pay them double the pain they had heaped upon him.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 8
Syra let her hand drop from Antony’s arm. She had been so angered with Brutus that she had taken the first opportunity to escape his presence. Yet when the senator’s face had clouded over with pain, she had regretted her rash gesture. Once away a few steps Syra had looked back, but Brutus had struck out for the Forum. She must have misinterpreted his frown. The senator probably had not given the exchange a single thought. Brutus was most likely relieved to be free of her presence.
“Is there something wrong?” Antony asked, with a hint of insincerity. Syra did not believe he cared too terribly about her state of mind.
“I tire of the market,” Syra said as she put more space between this arrogant lieutenant and herself.
“Then I shall show you anywhere you wish to go.”
“I thank thee, but I should be heading back.”
Antony’s strong brow creased. “And where would that be?”
Syra paused in her answer. Antony did not seem to be aware that she was but a slave. Since Brutus had not volunteered this information, neither did Syra. Besides, the term slave galled her greatly. She would not speak the word unless forced at sword-point. And much to her chagrin, Syra felt reluctant to stir any trouble for Brutus.
She kept her answer simple and direct. “Home.”
Antony searched her face. Would he press the matter? Instead, his lips parted in a brilliant smile—a grin that more than likely had parted many a girl’s skirts. But Syra was unaffected. What could this Roman offer her? Her land back? A thousand babes brought from their untimely death? Syra wanted nothing to do with Caesar’s right hand.
“Have you seen much of Rome yet?” he asked.
“Enough for one day,” Syra replied, as she turned down a road that she hoped led to Brutus’ palace.
Antony placed a hand on her arm, but Syra pulled away sharply. The young Roman seemed genuinely regretful. “I meant no affront, gentle lady. It is just that this avenue is Tucson Road. A lady of your stature should not frequent such quarters.”
Syra did not correct the title that Marc gave her as she looked down the avenue to find an assortment of brothel houses. She turned to find the Sacred Way behind her, filled with affluence and pride. How could these two quarters live side by side?
Rome was filled with such stark contrasts. Brutus’ dark, thick, and curly locks against this Antony’s thin, dull, brown hair. Shaking off such comparisons, Syra strode forward, but Antony trotted to catch up. It was apparent that this Roman was not accustomed to such rejection.
“Brutus would be quite angered if I were a poor host to his beautiful guest. Please, allow me to show you Rome in her glory.” Antony paused as Syra stopped. When she did not speak, Antony continued in a playful tone, “A tour by one of the city’s architects might not come again.”
“You helped build these walls?”
“I do not move stones, my lady. I move countries. When Caesar and I are done, Rome will eclipse all that ever existed.” Antony leaned in. “Let me show you the future.”
Syra wished to be away from this puffed-up braggart, but she also had an unquenchable desire to explore the city. She could not understand the world’s fascination, let alone her own attraction to Rome. Perhaps Antony’s glamour would help her see the blossom of civilization.
She had thought Brutus might impart some insight, but for a reason she could not fathom, each time the senator was near, she had a hard time concentrating on history. With Antony, she could be all ears.
“Perhaps the Forum would be interesting,” Syra suggested.
“Ah, so sorry, my lady. There is to be a grand festival this eve. It is closed until nightfall.”
&nb
sp; “Not even the vaunted architect can view his own creation?”
Antony’s eyes flashed at her barb. She had challenged his pride, and with little surprise, the Roman rose to it.
“If a private tour is what you wish, then so shall you have.”
Once away from the market, their paces quickened. The guards gave only a sharp salute as Antony and Syra strolled past, while other pedestrians cursed with raised fists at the barricades around the Forum.
Despite the variety of temples they had passed, Syra still stood amazed at the grandeur of the Forum. It towered higher than any creation of man’s should be allowed. Thick, strong columns held up a huge slab of solid marble that announced the tribunal. Syra could not help but crane her neck to take in the entire view. And it was not just the Forum that towered overhead—all around the square, impressive buildings rose into the sky. Her eyes were drawn to a tall pole jutting up to the heavens themselves. All along its length were ships’ prows.
“Ah. That is the Rostra. Those are prows of ships defeated in some of Rome’s greatest battles.” Antony walked up to the wood and patted it as if it were an old friend. “Do not worry. You will be moved to the new Curia, along with several new prows of Caesar’s making.”
Antony turned to Syra with an almost glazed expression on his face. “One will announce, Veni, Vidi, Vici.”
The Roman must have noticed Syra’s confusion, for he translated for her. “Those are Caesar’s words. It is Latin for ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Fitting, is it not?”
Actually the sentiment galled her, but for the moment Antony’s goodwill was necessary. Syra pointed to another tall pole. “What is this?”
Luckily, Antony was so impressed with himself that he did not notice her lack of adoration. “Look closely.”
Syra found numbers etched in gold. “What do they mean?”
“This is where all roads lead, my most delicate lady. This standard announces how far from Rome each major capital lies. For we are at the hub of a great wheel around which the rest of the world spins.”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 9