“No.” The word was slurred, but the meaning clear. “Get me home.”
Antony leant his shoulder. “Cleopatra waits at the palace.”
Julius shook his head and unbalanced the both of them.
Antony looked at Brutus with anger. “Help me!”
Both Longius and Brutus rose, but getting the general to his feet became impossible. It was disconcerting to see Caesar this way. How many seizures had the general had this day? How sick was Julius? Was Calpurnia correct?
Caesar turned to Brutus and laid his head upon his shoulder. “Not the palace, Brutus. Home.”
The general looked so very weak and unassuming—like a child who wished to visit his mother’s arms once again. Julius might stray with any beauty he saw fit, but in desperate moments, Calpurnia was his true wife.
“Of course, Julius,” Brutus answered.
Once in the hallway, Caesar’s personal guards rushed forward to relieve them of their burden. Antony stayed close to Julius’ side, while Brutus and Longius hung back. The general no longer needed their assistance. They did not need to accompany him any further. Brutus turned to his brother-in-law, but the normally affable man’s face was etched deeply with a frown. Longius shook his head absently as he headed toward the Forum Square, looking dazed.
It seemed no one was in the mood to talk, for only a scattering of senators lingered in the hallways. And unlike the boisterous discussions that normally took place, the Forum was shrouded in hushed tones. Not quite whispers, but not quite conversations, either.
No matter the reason, Brutus was glad for it. To think he might arrive at the Temple of Saturn not beseeched by the supporters of Pompey felt like music to his ears. Antony had been right, even though Brutus doubted that Marc even knew it. These times were thick with prophecy and pretense. The Fates wove a tight and thick web for them all to struggle in. It would take days, if not weeks, for the Cotta’s words to sink in. And even longer to decide what action to take.
Brutus slowed his pace and turned down a narrow hallway. Making certain that no one noticed, he slipped into a small alcove. These were private cubicles where the senators could retreat in times of debate to clear their thoughts and organize their rebuttals. Brutus carefully closed the small curtain and waited a few breaths. He had not retreated to meditate—instead, he wanted to escape.
Certain that no one else was in the hallway, Brutus moved the small statue of Minerva and opened the back panel of the alcove. It squeaked a bit as the wood slid against the stone. Brutus held his breath, but no other came to discover him. Praising his luck, Brutus entered the secret passage. It had been built centuries ago by the kings for quick escape in times of unrest.
Brutus was not in such distress. He wished only to reach his office unmolested. The hallway was nearly black, but the Roman knew the way well. He knew which boulders jutted out a bit and which turns became slick underfoot.
Within a few moments, Brutus could see the streaks of light that seeped under the exit. Moving a hidden latch in the wall, Brutus opened the door. Stepping out into the corridor, Brutus hurried toward the temple. His escape was nearly complete until Cicero rushed up the steps to the treasury.
“I knew you would retreat here,” the older man wheezed.
“I have work to do.”
“Then let us arrive at your office.”
Brutus groaned. There would be no shaking the First Senator. It was best to simply move along to a more private place to talk. The two walked along the bright corridor. While one wall had been carved out of the hillside, the other had windows hewn from the rock. Light spilled in from the Forum Square.
Instead of the usual bustling crowd, stillness had descended over the courtyard. No one shouted his case from the Rostra. No petitioners pestered senators near the Temple of Venus. It was as if a sickness had palled the citizens and drained the very vitality from them.
“Remember this sight well, Brutus.”
* * *
Syra cleaned out yet another pot. They had gotten quite carried away with breaking the fast. It seemed they had dirtied every dish that this large kitchen had to offer. And servants still streamed in to sample their efforts. Even now, well past the zenith of the sun, food was still being delivered from the market. Fiona was beside herself trying to fit all of the new goods into her pantry.
The cook held up some pungent dried fruits. “Do these have a name?”
Syra took in a deep breath. “Sultanas,” she answered in a distant voice. The smell reminded her sharply of her homeland. Nowhere else had she found this precious commodity.
Navia sniffed and crinkled her nose. “Might we keep them outside?”
“We could, but it will grow moldy quickly. It is used to make Selkirk Bannock.” Smiling a tad, Syra handed the fruit back to Fiona. “A cake.”
“Cake?” Fiona brightened and looked at the sultanas with more respect. “For tonight?”
“Do you not think we have cooked enough this day?” Syra asked, but everyone in the room shook their heads. Especially the young stable boy who still nibbled on the potato flapjacks from breakfast and eyed the scones with a possessiveness that kept one of the workers away from the pastries.
Navia’s face was radiant as she surveyed the food. “We should make a banquet for Brutus!”
Syra cringed at the idea, but all heads nodded vigorously in favor of the young girl’s suggestion. Even the normally reserved Horat was warm to the idea. “It seems unfair that Brutus has bought all this, yet not tasted your labor.”
“I would not presume that he wishes to,” Syra replied.
“Do not be thick, Syra. Brutus enjoys a well-cooked meal like no one else. A banquet it is,” Fiona stated with authority.
“Yes!” Navia seemed near giddy with excitement, but could see her reluctance. “Please, Syra.”
“Do not discard that so lightly!” Syra exclaimed as the girl lifted a pitcher of milk that had been sitting out all morning. “We will need it.”
“For what? It is spoiled, Syra.”
“Do you not wish to find out what butterscotch tastes like?”
Fiona chirped with anticipation. “Does it go on the Selkirk?”
“Aye.”
Navia laid a hand upon Syra’s arm. “He has given us so much already. Should we not reciprocate?”
She had no argument with the younger girl. They both owed Brutus much, and it seemed with each passing moment, more and more.
* * *
After a silent walk, Brutus followed Cicero into Saturn’s Temple. Even though Brutus’ office was tidy with hundreds of scrolls in neat stacks, the room felt oppressively cramped. Cicero seemed to stand too closely, and the temperature of the office made the linen stick to Brutus’ legs. Could this Republic not have a single week in which it ran on greased wheels? Why was someone always throwing boulders in the tracks?
The famed orator stood silently as Brutus cursed the Fates. This was one of Cicero’s famous debating tricks. He would force the opponent to open the argument, and then put him on the defensive. But Brutus was no novice. If Cicero wished to keep silent, all the better.
Ignoring his old mentor, Brutus seated himself and began tabulating the new spice totals from the East. Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus could see Cicero turn glorious shades of red. The older man began pacing, but Brutus kept to his task.
Cicero revered order, protocol, and precision. Certainly the old man railed about Caesar’s excesses, but Brutus knew that a certain amount of jealousy tainted the orator’s words. What Cicero could not do with educated rhetoric, Julius had done with crass violence. The loss of the public’s adoration had stung Cicero far worse than any senatorial decree.
Finally, the orator could take no more shut lips. Cicero pounded his hands upon Brutus’ desk. “Damn it! Do you not care? Did you see them?”
Brutus did not look up. “Who?”
“Those new senators! The Cotta spoke, yet they threw dice upon the very floor of the Curia!”
Brutus kept quiet. He was loath to admit that even he had been shocked at their newest comrades’ lack of decorum. It was said wagers changed hands. Gambling in the Curia! If Brutus cared about such things, he would call it scandalous. He had never thought he would see the day come when the bastion of government could sink quite that low. But he did not wish Cicero to go into an hourlong diatribe, so he cut to the chase.
“That is not what you stalked me for, Cicero.”
“Nay.” The orator paced again.
Brutus knew why the First Senator delayed. The truth would not sound to Cicero’s liking. Normally, the orator liked to bask in his aura of scholarly detachment. Cicero could always sound as if he were taking the road high above all others. But in this, Brutus knew that the First Senator had muddied himself in the rudest of intrigues.
Cicero and his cronies had goaded on the war against the Parthinians. Yes, the Parthinians were a sleeping giant to the east. Yes, if stirred they might be a threat, but the fact was, they were not.
For centuries, the Parthinians had proven they did not wish to enter the west. The reason Cicero had stirred the populace’s blood against the Parthinians was the fact that no Roman had ever bested them in combat. Cicero had plotted to give Caesar an unwinnable war. The others had hoped that either Julius would either be killed in such an engagement or, at the very least, come home in shame.
Brutus wondered what ate at Cicero more. Was it that Rome seemed on the verge of gaining a king, or the fact that Caesar and Antony had bested him at his own game? It was Cicero who was now caught in a vise of his own making.
To Rome’s populace, victory was the all. If the orator did not support Caesar’s ascension to the throne and Julius lost, the Republic would turn in vicious disappointment upon the First Senator. Cicero’s only choice was to support Caesar in his quest for the crown. How that must be eating at the vaunted statesman.
When Cicero did speak, the words were nearly stuttered. “That… That scene last eve was staged! This priest did not spend the night in meditation. They had found the quote weeks ago.”
“More than likely, yes.”
Cicero leaned over the desk, his eyes wild with a pained rage. “Will you watch this Republic crumble? With you watch as all that we have worked for is ground under Caesar’s heel?”
“As always, you exaggerate, Cicero. While I dislike the notion of a king, Julius will build Rome.”
“But at what cost? Dear gods, Brutus, you must see that he is sick. His mind is fevered with wine and that Egyptian.”
Brutus tired of the lecture. “And what do you suggest? Throw Rome into another civil war?”
“If necessary, yes.”
The words were said with such ferocity that they gave Brutus pause. He had not thought Caesar capable of such arrogance to seek the throne, and he had not thought Cicero capable of such bitterness to seek vengeance. It was Brutus’ great misfortune to have been so very wrong on both accounts.
* * *
Everyone bustled about the candlelit dining room, setting out the repast. Fiona had produced a fine silk covering for the table and spread it out with a tenderness normally reserved for babes.
Syra wondered silently if this might have been her life if she had picked up a ladle instead of the sword. Would she have found the warmth of this household? Would she have known the pride of a well-cooked meal rather than a victory on the battlefield?
Before she could answer such a question, Syra noticed that a tear glistened at the corner of the cook’s eye, but she refused to allow it to fall on the precious fabric.
Syra felt uncomfortable, but could not let the older woman suffer in silence. “What is wrong?”
Startled that anyone else had noticed, Fiona tried to brush aside the tear. “Nothing.” But even as she tried to act brave, the cook’s lip trembled. “It is just…” Her hand went out to stroke the smooth cloth again. “It was the last gift from my husband before…”
Syra only nodded. The cook did not need to elaborate. It seemed everyone’s story in the house was similar. Brutus had a penchant for acquiring refugees of fate. Except for Horat, who had been Brutus’ manservant since the Roman was a babe, everyone else had lost loved ones in war. Even the stable boy Tiberius had been orphaned in Rome’s latest civil battle.
Despite the pain, Fiona was a hardy woman and shook off her sorrow quickly. “We must find the large candles.”
The cook was off before Syra could answer. Navia came up from behind with a silver platter laden with Kedgeree. The aroma from the fish filled the room, reminding Syra of the old port town where she had grown up. The fishermen would leave far before the sun rose and come home well past its setting. But each night they would arrive home to this glorious fragrance. How was it that after decades, one could remember a smell as if it had been served only the day before?
“Brutus has not yet arrived,” Syra informed the younger girl.
“Aye, but the dish will not last another quarter hour in the kitchen with this one about.” Navia playfully pointed an elbow to Horat, who was following the platter as if it were a leash around his neck.
Without his usual sternness, Horat’s face had softened into a smile and the look of anticipation. The mixture of spices on the delicate whitefish had been eagerly approved of by the older servant. Even now, he licked his lips. The smell drew the workers from outside like a dinner bell had been rung.
Laughter and warmth filled the room, yet Syra felt strangely discontented. After years of living off the hard land, under the worst circumstances, this levity felt disconcerting. Normally, she was worried where her next meal would come from, not how well her fare would be received. She did not know how to respond when Horat nudged her appreciatively.
It took a few moments for the realization to sink into her heart. This was what it was like to have family. Tears that had a mind of their own sprang to her eyes. This was what she had missed her entire life. The Northerner had never had a hearth to call her home. Never had a mother to tend to her childish scrapes and bruises. Certainly she had never known a dining room filled with love.
In the dim light of the candles, the scene seemed unreal. Was this another dream? Could she really have found a home? Syra had always bolted from one battle to another. Could she ever be content with this life that Navia cherished? Looking down at Navia’s growing belly, for the first time Syra wondered if she herself would ever bear children. Could Syra hope to have a life that she had always fought to protect, but never experienced herself?
There were so many questions flying about her head that Syra had not noticed the young stable boy panting in front of her.
“Yes?”
Tiberius was nearly in tears. “I could not get in.”
“What do you mean?” Fiona asked as she them.
The boy shrugged. “The guard wouldn’t let me in. He said that Brutus did not wish any visitors.”
“Oh, dear,” Fiona said with a frown. “Did the sentry say why?”
“Only that Brutus had asked for an entire skin of oil.”
Horat sighed at Syra’s shoulder. “That means he will be working late into the night.”
Fiona must have seen disappointment on Syra’s face, for the older woman squeezed her hand. “Do not worry, child. There will be another night.”
“I am certain our master would not want this wonderful food to go to waste,” Horat suggested.
With a bit of false cheer, Fiona agreed. “Nay. Gather everyone. We will serve dinner immediately.”
Syra did not move as the others hustled off to the kitchen. A weight had settled onto her heart. She had thought herself immune to disappointment. Her entire life had been a string of defeats and rejection, yet tonight’s regret felt more painful than any in recent memory. It did not feel like a type of disappointment when the last sweetmeat was gone. This felt heavy and pained. Like the last of the bread was gone in the dead of winter, and one had not seen any game for a week.
It was silly
, really. Brutus could not attend dinner. It was not an event that would shake anyone else’s world. Why, then, was she frozen in place? Why did she wish to climb up to Saturn’s Temple and bang upon the door herself?
Horat patted her on the shoulder. “He will know of your effort.”
But that was just the thing. She did not want to hear of his appreciation. Syra wished to see it. All through the day, she had secretly imagined what Brutus’ face would look like when he first smelled the Kedgeree. What would he say upon his first bite of marmalade? She had wanted to see his lips curl up in satisfaction when he realized the butterscotch had a slightly bitter aftertaste to balance the sweet perfectly. But Syra would see none of it.
Navia accidentally bumped her as she entered with the Howtowdie, a stuffed chicken dish. Helping the girl balance the heavy plate, Syra put on a false grin, much as Fiona had done earlier. The evening would go on despite Syra’s disappointment.
If being a family meant that one could feel like this, Syra wanted no part of it. No part of it at all.
* * *
Brutus rubbed his eyes yet again. Each time it felt as if he had used papyrus to wipe them. His eyes stung from the late hour and the trail of smoke that coiled from the lamp. The oil was long since used up and now the wick fed upon itself. Soon the room would descend into darkness. Brutus could call to the guard outside his door for another skin of oil, but more light would not elevate his eyelids. He had poured himself into his work after Cicero had left, hoping that sheet after sheet of tabulations would soothe his unease, but in this the senator had been unsuccessful. Now he was very tired and very, very hungry.
Rising slowly as every joint creaked with disuse, Brutus stretched his arms. The hour was late enough that he hoped to escape the Temple unmolested by other senators hoping to bend his ear. All he wished now was to walk home under the clear sky and view the constellations that moved overhead. Once home he would eat his fill, then take the hottest bath recorded in all of history.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 12