Syra tried to keep the contempt from her visage. Did this Roman not realize that entire lands lay beyond the Republic’s “great wheel”? Even her own homeland, Scotland, was still free of Rome’s yoke. But Syra held her tongue. If she wished to know her enemy, she needed him to speak freely.
Walking to the west, Syra spotted a small, unadorned door. It contrasted starkly with all of the marble and grandiose decorations. Stepping forward, she put a hand out, but Marc intercepted.
“Nay, my dearest. That door is opened but three times a year, and I promise you, you do not wish to be near.”
“Why?” Syra asked. The door was most unassuming.
“Do you not know of the Mundus?” After Syra shook her head, Antony continued. “By the gods’ order, we must open this door three times each year to allow in those who wish to contact their ancestors. But remember, once the door is open, the underworld may gain access to us as well.”
Syra was surprised to see how shaken the burly Roman appeared. She studied the door again, and despite Marc’s protest, Syra laid a hand upon the thick stone surface. He was right—even the rock felt cold to the touch. The senator might be disturbed by such things, but in truth Syra was thrilled a bit. This plain, sturdy door, with dangerous mysteries behind it, reminded her of home. This Mundus held secrets kept close in Nature’s heart. Risking much to visit those lost to death sang to her heritage.
Or was it more? The slick surface of the stone door felt vaguely familiar. Syra wondered what the dark hallway might look like. Was it as black as the one in her dream?
“Please, gentlewoman. Come away. There is much that is bright and beautiful to still see.”
Syra allowed Antony to guide her away from the Mundus, but her thoughts lingered on the opening. She wondered when the door might be opened next time. Syra was about to voice her wonder when they rounded a corner and came upon the most magnificent bronze gate. How many smithies had it taken to forge this enormous structure? And it was not simply smooth. There was much fine edging to it. It must have taken an entire village of forgers to beat out this grand gate.
Antony chuckled as he studied her face. “Would you like to go in?”
Not speaking, else her awe would be revealed, Syra only nodded.
The Roman gave the slightest nudge, and the huge gate swung out smoothly, without a single creak. “This leads to the Curia.” When Syra looked quizzical, Antony continued, “It is where the Senate holds its sessions.”
Syra nearly slipped when they walked onto the marble floor of the Curia. Never had she stood upon something so slick, yet so solid. To their right were rows upon rows of benches. They rose past the torchlight. Syra had seen several buildings that called themselves a theater, but they were wooden and quite shabby. Never had they been built taller than five rows. She had become so engrossed in the Curia that she did not notice that Antony had crossed the stage and motioned for her to follow.
For a moment, she felt trepidation. They were alone. Utterly alone. No guards were posted at the bronze gate they had just entered. How she wished for a weapon again. It was clear what Antony wanted from her. The question was—would he try to take it by force?
Pulling a stray lock back into its confines, Syra felt for one of the long pins that Navia had used to secure her tumble of hair. A smile spread. If Antony did anything untoward, he would be greeted by a nasty surprise.
Her muscles tensed, Syra followed Antony behind a thick velvet curtain. The sight was nothing she expected, yet it seemed she knew it intimately. It was a temple hewn out of rock and granite. The temple from her dream.
In the far back sat an enormous anvil, which glistened in the low light. Syra walked forward and laid a hand upon the cool metal, trying to make sense of it all. How could this place be real?
“Impressive, is it not?”
It was not just impressive—it stole the breath from her chest. She felt like she knew this anvil as if she forged it herself.
Antony continued, “To appease Venus, our patron goddess, Romulus built this temple to her husband, Vulcan.”
Syra did not bother to correct Marc’s misuse of the gods’ names. In the ancient time of Romulus, Rome had not yet stolen the Greek gods and renamed them for themselves. Romulus had built this temple to Aphrodite’s husband, Hephaistos. How she knew such things eluded her. Syra was only glad to touch the anvil.
Slowly, she walked around the sacred object. The crippled god Hephaistos was considered a forger with no equal. Unlike the other gods upon Mount Olympus who constantly whined and meddled in man’s affairs, Hephaistos hammered metal and brought order out of chaos. This was a god she might be tempted to worship.
“Careful, Syra,” Antony said, as he urged her around a large slab of black marble set into the floor. “That is the Lapis Nigra.”
Once around the slick floor, Marc explained, “Romulus was killed here. His followers buried him beneath this very spot, and covered his body with marble. Truly a tomb fit for a warrior.”
Sinking to her knees, she fingered the edge of the dark marble. Why did tears force themselves to her eyes? What was an ancient hero’s grave to her? A Roman grave, no less. Yet, in this moment, the grueling cart ride was a small price to pay for touching the Lapis.
Antony was at her side. “Do not feel embarrassed. Many a man has wept at the sight. There are times I can almost feel his presence. As if he speaks to me through the marble.”
Was that what she felt? All around her she could hear the very faintest whispers. Conversations she should understand, but they still eluded her. What would Romulus say to her, even if she could hear? And why would the founder of Rome deign to speak with one who disdained his city so?
Marc urged her to her feet. Syra did not resist.
“I am sorry to cut our visit short, my lady, but the sun dips, and I must prepare for the festival.”
Syra’s answer was more a reflex. “You have been more than generous.”
Antony guided her out of the Curia just as the sun set. They both paused as the courtyard became drenched in the orange twilight. All of Rome was awash in the most delicious glow. Temples glimmered in the strange light as if lit from the inside, yet not a torch had been fired. The Bronze gate sparkled more brightly than a thousand stars in the sky.
For a moment, Syra could imagine that the gods did in fact caress Rome with their grace. After a heartbeat, the sun lowered, and the affect was lost. But it was a moment that Syra would remember for eternity.
Even Antony seemed at a loss for words. “There is greatness on the horizon, Syra.” He turned to her. “You must stay and see it fulfilled.”
She would stay. But not for Antony’s sake. Something in her heart felt certain that the Fates had placed her exactly where they wished.
* * *
Brutus’ temper was near boiling. The wine merchant had overstepped his bounds and overstayed his welcome. It was about time Brutus told him such.
“You shall deliver the wine, Vitius.”
“Not until you—”
Brutus pointed to the ten huge bronze tablets that hung upon the Temple of Saturn’s walls. All of Rome’s laws were inscribed onto these great slabs of metal. “Have I broken a single one of these edicts?”
The merchant must have sensed Brutus’ change in mood for his tone became more respectful. “Nay, but—”
“We agreed to a price, Vitius. Not just by word but by ink as well.” Brutus shoved the signed papyrus contract at the merchant.
“But I had costs that I did not anticipate.”
“Then you will have a loss of profit. Do not blame me for your miscalculations.”
Vitius’ fat cheeks flared. “You will pay me!”
Patience run out and still greatly worried about Syra, Brutus leaned forward and used a low and controlled tone to make sure that Vitius understood each syllable. “I will open up the Republic’s cellars and let red wine flow down the streets if need be.”
“You cannot! The people expect Gr
eek wine and—”
“If I give them enough of it, they will not care what country it arose from.” Brutus turned to leave. “Unload your wares, quietly and without issue, and I will continue to contract with you. If not, then Caesar will grow to like a new Greek vintage.”
Brutus did not need to turn around to know that Vitius’ face was now the same shade as his infamous burgundy wine. As the merchant exited his office, Brutus glanced out the window. It was far later than he had guessed.
There was no time to head home before the festivities. But how could he stand upon the dais and wave to the crowd, when he was concerned beyond reason about the Northerner? Where had Antony taken Syra? And why had she gone? Where were they now?
Brutus had only one solace. Antony was the high priest of Pan’s cult. The younger Roman had many duties to perform this night. Marc did not have time to seduce the Northerner, did he? Such questions burned. He had never particularly enjoyed the Lupercalia, but now he greatly resented it.
* * *
Freed from Antony’s stifling presence, Syra wandered the market. So much had happened this day. She should have headed to her new home, but her mind wandered to the small booth that sold wares from her homeland. An urge made her seek out the hag’s table. She wished to speak in her true tongue, Gaelic. Syra wanted to hear of the rolling hills and soothing fog once more. Maybe then she could tease Rome from her heart.
Despite the lateness of the hour and the encroaching dark, the market was still filled with shoppers, men frantic to find the perfect offering for Pan. By now, however, most of the gilded trinkets were taken, and these procrastinators were reduced to buying ugly little pottery as their sacrifice. Their desperation was palpable.
The change in atmosphere amazed Syra. Was this not a festival of hearty lust and frivolous play? These Romans were certainly taking it far more seriously than the god himself seemed to.
Turning a corner, Syra knew that she was close to the old woman’s stall. The Persian perfumer still offered the most exquisite glass bottles at the most extravagant prices. Feet stalling, Syra looked around her again.
The tiny stoop that held the booth was no longer occupied. Instead, a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple toga shook out a dirty rug. Syra checked her bearings again. The ivory merchant was to her left. The aphrodisiac dealer to her right, far down the aisle. After years on the battlefield, Syra’s sense of direction was honed to a fine point. This was the exact spot of the booth, she felt certain.
Normally, Syra would not have pursued the matter, but the sweet smell of thistle still tickled the edge of her nose, and she needed but one more sniff to satisfy her soul. Walking forward, Syra cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew the proprietor who had a table here earlier?”
The woman wore an easy smile, but shook her head. “Sorry, dear. We don’t allow merchants.” The Roman cocked her head toward the crowd of ruffians down the street who were rolling dice and shouting loudly. “It attracts a hardened crowd.”
“But I was…” Syra’s voice trailed off as the door opened another crack to reveal the same old woman as earlier, sitting in a rocking chair next to the hearth. “It was she. She had a booth with tokens from the North.”
A look of concern crossed the woman’s face as she closed the door behind her. “No, child. It could not be.”
Syra grew tired of this Roman’s rejection of the truth. Why was the woman being so stubborn? “I spoke with her, but we had yet to settle on a price.”
The woman’s smile fell, and she took a step off the stoop to stand equal with Syra. “Last year, the gods saw fit to take my mother’s mind. She could no more run a booth than I could bring the sun back this eve.” The woman must have seen the look of disbelief on Syra’s face, for she continued, “Child, she cannot even dress herself. She drools if you do not wipe her face so often. It was not she, nor was the booth here.” The woman went back up the step. “Please, continue your search. I hope you find what you seek.”
Syra watched as the woman went back inside the home. A gust of wind followed the woman and blew the door out of her hand. The old hag looked straight into Syra’s eyes. There was no doubt. These gray-blue eyes were the same as the merchant’s. Syra was more certain of it than even her own name. Gaining control of the door once more, the younger woman shut it, but not before the old woman’s lips cracked in a smile. Then she did the most unusual thing. Just as the door eclipsed her view, the hag winked her crinkled eye at Syra.
Before she could respond, the door slammed shut. She had the urge to rush forward and bang on it, but knew it would do little good.
For whatever reason, the Fates had many secrets this day and did not wish to share a single one with Syra.
* * *
Brutus shifted his weight. This festival was dragging on far too long. It seemed each and every man in Rome was determined to offer not only a sacrifice to Pan but a speech as well. If it were not for the fact that he stood next to Caesar upon the podium, Brutus would have slunk off to find Syra.
Luckily, this ritual could not drag on much longer. The moon had risen, and the crowd below had drunk enough wine to become a bit too boisterous for much more ceremony. The only formality left was for the high priest to offer the Diadem of Kingship to Jupiter. Then they could disperse, and the mob would fall into something akin to a state-sanctioned orgy. All of which Brutus would happily retire from.
The crowd cheered as Brutus looked to the west. Torches bobbed in the distance. Finally, the priests arrived. In typical theatrical fashion, Marc Antony enjoyed his new role as high priest. He wore tall antlers on his head and fur chaps on his legs to mimic his half-beast god. Antony carried the gilded laurel crown meant for Jupiter. As the high priest leapt in the air and kicked his heels, the mob egged him on. If they were not careful, this intoxicated crowd might descend into a mob.
In three quick leaps, Antony was over the small retaining wall and onto the platform in front of Caesar. Brutus took an unconscious step back. This was not part of the ceremony. What was the young senator up to?
Nearly out of breath, Antony smiled broadly as he raised the laurel above Caesar’s head. “Are thou not a king already?”
With the Diadem hovering above his head, Caesar looked over the crowd, which had stilled to an ear-shattering silence. Brutus saw a look pass between the two men.
Caesar stepped forward and in a booming voice announced, “Jupiter, alone, is King of the Romans! Send the Diadem to him upon the Capitol.”
Antony gave another leaping kick and was back over the wall. The crowd let out its collective anxiety with wild whooping. The mob followed close behind the priests, up to Jupiter’s temple. By the time Brutus turned to Caesar, the general had already descended to the litter that would whisk him away to his private celebration at the royal palace. But Cicero was still standing to the side.
No words needed to pass between the student and his former mentor. Brutus knew exactly what the orator would say. It had not taken Caesar an entire fortnight to seek the crown. Only a single sunset. If it had not been for the crowd’s shocked silence, Rome might well have had a King this night.
* * *
Before entering the house, Syra glanced back to Capitoline Hill one last time. The crowd roared such that it sounded as if the festival were at the next house rather than an entire city away. A huge bonfire had been lit in the Forum Square, and the flickering light stood out against the dark sky.
With a sliver of a moon, it was the only illumination across the night. Tiny figures flocked toward its brilliant light. But Syra was unimpressed. They were but moths to Rome’s hot torch. Eventually they would all be burnt out as well.
Memories still stinging her skin, Syra was careful to avoid the courtyard. She did not need to be reminded of all her losses again. Syra wished only to find some scraps in the kitchen, then head off to bed. Not even a hot bath sounded appealing. Even though she was certain that Brutus wou
ld be out all night at this grand festival, she did not wish to risk meeting him again.
Why had she said yes to the invitation to the market earlier? Why had she sat down upon that bench with him the night before?
With a clear head and a sad heart, Syra acutely remembered why she hated Rome—and especially one of its leading citizens. Syra had to respect Brutus for saving herself, Navia, and the rest. For that act of kindness, she would serve him for a short time, then move on to where destiny led.
Quietly, Syra snatched some thick bread and hard cheese from the pantry and ate it on the way to her room. Except for the cool tile underfoot, this moment was akin to her life back in Spain. Some hearty food before spreading her bedroll. No sweet lamb or seasoned squash. This food she was born to.
Entering her room, Syra noticed that Navia was not in bed. Were they working the young woman too harshly? Syra was so busy worrying about the pregnant girl that she did not notice that the bedchamber had been refurnished.
It was not until Syra removed the slick green sash and turned to look in the mirror that she realized the polished bronze had been replaced. The breath in her throat caught as she found the Green Man’s totem upon the wall. And it was no longer altered to resemble a sundial. The affront had been removed, and someone had carefully repainted the petrified wood to match the original color.
Had she not known for certain that the carving had been damaged, Syra would have sworn it had been a Druid who created it. Beneath the emblem was a small table topped with many of the items from the old woman’s stall. A dish made from light oak was filled with savory pine nuts, while a delicate vase carved from limestone held an array of thistle. Hand shaking, Syra reached out to touch the precious keepsakes.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 10