With these pleasant thoughts running through his head, the senator left his office and dismissed the guard who had been posted. Brutus had taken his privacy very seriously this day.
Descending from Capitoline Hill, Brutus entered the thin hallway that led past the Arylum, the slight depression between the two peaks. From here he would stroll the Sacred Way home. Brutus continued his walk, even though he heard a stirring to the left. No one should be at Jupiter’s Temple this late. Unless, of course, the Cotta was scrounging for more convenient prophecies.
Brutus slowed as a darkened figure approached. A moment of fear clutched him. Many dissenters had been dispatched this way in Rome’s past. Was this how his political career ended? His concern was not eased when he realized it was Marc Antony, hand upon his sword, who approached.
“Brutus, we must speak.”
“I will be in my office upon the morn.”
Antony’s fist clenched the pommel. “Now. I must know what you told Cicero.”
“I do not understand.”
The younger Roman’s jaw spasmed. “Do not play coy, Brutus. Did you tell him of Caesar’s visit?”
For a moment, Brutus did not know what Antony was speaking of. Then he realized that Marc spoke of Julius’ convulsion. “No, of course not. Caesar’s health is his own.”
“It is between him and the gods,” Antony stated, but it sounded to Brutus that the man was trying to convince himself as well.
“May I?” Brutus asked, as he sidestepped the armed lieutenant.
Antony held his ground for a moment, then stepped aside. “Be careful. Caesar may have forgiven you, but I have not.”
Brutus did not answer. Instead, he strode down the path until it opened into the Sacred Way. Why could he not have been born a pauper? Bricklaying sounded like a very attractive profession.
He slowed as he entered the well-traveled road. It was deep in the night, yet The Way was as busy at dawn. Ox-drawn carts rumbled down the road, trying to dispense with their wares before the sun rose again, and they were exiled beyond the gates.
Brutus had forgotten how active the city was after dusk. These merchants cared not what intrigue happened upon the Hill. They wished only to exchange currency and feed their families another day. As he passed Tucson Road, Brutus was not surprised to see the avenue sounding like midday. Parties still raged as red torches cast a sensuous glow.
During the day, the gentry of Rome avoided this avenue as if they might catch leprosy by just glancing down its length. Now under the cover of night, white-robed senators openly mingled with rouge-covered prostitutes.
Disgusted by the sight, Brutus followed the Way as it led up Palatine Hill. Brutus slowed as rocks crunched underfoot. As the moon waned, it became easy to trip on the uneven ground. At his reduced pace, Brutus wondered if Tucson Road was Antony’s next destination. The younger Roman was famous for his indiscretions.
Had Caesar’s lieutenant found his way into Brutus’ household as well? Despite his solemn oath, he found himself thinking of Syra. Just as he had banned all visitors to his office, Brutus had tried to refuse entry of the Northerner into his thoughts.
But here under the gentle glow of the moon, Brutus could not help but think of her smooth skin and exotic aroma. To think that Antony might have stroked her cheek drew angry blood to his own skin. He knew that he had no right, but Brutus already felt a sense of possessiveness that eclipsed all reason. Lylith could engage in carnal knowledge with Antony upon the Forum steps, and Brutus would feel only relief that he did not have to service the demanding woman. Yet Syra’s single touch on Antony’s arm boiled his blood.
Trying to calm himself, Brutus entered his darkened house. He made his way toward the kitchen, but noticed that a candle flickered in the dining room. Curious, Brutus detoured down the hall to find a plate set for him. Intrigued, Brutus entered to find a single piece of cake drizzled with a strange sauce. He sniffed at the foreign food and found its smell to be a delight. Bitter yet sweet. Brutus took a single bite and felt the first smile of the day come to his lips. Who had dreamed up such a delicacy?
“Syra cooked it with the ingredients you sent,” a voice announced behind him. Brutus turned to find Horat looking bleary-eyed. “You must commend her. You missed the banquet. The aroma drew the neighbors. Syra snatched that piece before it walked out the door.”
Brutus’ smile faded. “She made dinner? Why was I not summoned?”
“Tiberius tried, but you had a guard posted.”
Brutus kicked himself for his rash decision to exclude everyone from his office. In the future, he would be much more selective. Brutus did not wish to miss such a treat again.
Horat shuffled a bit, bringing the senator’s attention back to his manservant. “Yes?”
“Sire, if we have any hope of completing Lylith’s new wing, we must hire more workers. She wishes another closet added before her return.”
Brutus’ first instinct was to wave Horat away and let him comply with Lylith’s request, but he stopped. “Nay. She will just have to wait.”
Despite his tired eyes, Horat’s eyebrow shot up. “Lylith was explicit in her demands. She will not return until the renovations are done.”
“And you find that distressful?” Brutus asked.
A slow smile covered Horat’s face. “Nay. I do not. May I tell the others of your decision? They have been quite agitated that Lylith might return hastily.”
“Please do.”
The servant yawned, then excused himself, leaving Brutus alone with his cake and a candle that was nearly burnt out. Sitting down, he savored the next bite as if it were the first food he had ever tasted. He rolled the rich cake around on his tongue and let the taste flow over him like a lover’s touch. Would this be what it was like to have Syra hold his arm? Would her taste be this exquisite?
Chiding himself, Brutus tried not to think of the beauty, but it was no use. He had to admit it to himself, if to no other. Cupid had drawn back upon his bow and shot true. The arrow of desire had not just grazed the surface. It had struck him cleanly. Directly into his heart, where Brutus knew it would never dislodge.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 10
Syra soaked in the excitement of the marketplace. It had been a week since she had cooked her first meal, and not a day went by that everyone did not clamor for more of her Northern fare. Which meant that they perused the merchant stalls daily. The routine had calmed her nerves and tempered her desire to flee. She was learning the city by strolls rather than recognizance.
Even though she had not seen hide or hair of Brutus these past days, Horat assured her that their master was insistent on her supplying them with even more foreign delicacies. The disappointment of that candlelit night seemed to fade as the days carried on. If anything, the senator’s absence had made her even more intrigued by the Roman.
With the exception of the absent Lylith, the household was run more like a family than an estate. They shared their duties freely, and once their chores were done, the servants were left to their own devices. It was an easier life than any Syra had ever even imagined. She feared growing soft, but there was a lure to the gentle murmur of this life.
In all things, it seemed Brutus eschewed his royal heritage. His household spoke more of his character than any declaration from the Senate.
“The races start any minute,” Tiberius mentioned for over the tenth time in an hour.
Navia looked on encouragingly, but Fiona only scoffed again. “There is work to do, young man. Perhaps after we are finished.”
The boy sighed. Their shopping did not seem to have any end this day. Life seemed light and effortless. It had only been a few weeks, but the hockings of the merchant already seemed familiar. The rows of brightly colored stalls were a feast for the eyes. Even Syra had to admit that there was a certain attraction to all of this activity. Nowhere else in the world could you buy Oriental fireworks next to a stall that sold the spoor of a full-maned lion.
“Can we visit the waterfront?” Navia asked. It seemed she had taken a liking to the Kedgeree dish Syra had made the week before.
Fiona chuckled. “Only if we find more cream of tartar to go atop.”
Tiberius groaned, as his arms were already full of their purchases.
Feeling especially relaxed, Syra tousled the youngster’s hair. “Do not worry, Ti. I will make you toffee tonight.”
This brightened the boy considerably as they made their way down to the wharf. It was late afternoon, and most of the boats would be making their way into harbor. This Mediterranean was so bountiful that these fishermen could go out for half a day and come home overflowing with the wonders of the sea. With any luck, they would have caught some whitefish to satisfy Navia’s newfound cravings.
“Fiona!” a call came from deeper within the market. “Please wait.”
A rotund senator made his way through the thick knot of shoppers to catch up. The cook rolled her eyes as he approached. Fat jiggled over his belt as he labored toward them. It was a most unpleasant sight.
“Artemidorus.” Fiona spoke the name without much affection.
The senator spoke with a moist wheeze. “I am so glad to catch you. Would you do me a most kind favor?”
“If it is within my power.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The pudgy nobleman glanced around and urged them closer to the docks, where the crowds were scarce. His tone became lower and his eyes darted underneath heavy lids. “I must speak with Brutus.”
“He holds regular hours at the Temple and—”
“No, no. In private.”
Fiona sighed. “Senator, you must speak with Horat. I do not hold Brutus’ schedule.”
“But you do know when you serve him dinner. Perhaps I could wait in the kitchen and sample some of your famous lamb?”
Syra could sense the cook’s disgust, but Fiona kept a level tone. “Sire, you will need to speak with Horat.”
Fiona tried to excuse herself, but the senator became desperate. He reached a hand out and placed it on the cook’s wrist. “It is of a most urgent matter that I must speak with him.” Artemidorus’ voice fell to a whisper. If Syra had not been standing alongside Fiona, she would not have heard the next words. “It is a matter of life and death.”
The cook shrugged. “Even if I wished to, Senator, I cannot help you. Brutus has not even been to dinner for weeks. You would have a better chance of seeing him at the Curia than his own home.”
The senator’s face cleared of the frown, and he nodded vigorously. “Rightly said. Forgive my trespass.”
Without another word, the senator waddled back into the market. Syra leaned into Fiona. “What do you think he spoke of?”
“Ump,” the cook snorted, and waved away Artemidorus’ presence. “There is no end to that man’s cowardice. If another senator even looks at him with a scowl, Artemidorus thinks a plot is afoot. It is why Brutus will not see him. Even his patience is up.”
The cook did not seem to give the interaction another thought, and followed Navia and Tiberius to the wharf. Syra was not so certain. The man had true distress etched in his face for a moment. Not nervous hysteria, but real concern. Was it only because Brutus normally tolerated Artemidorus, or did the pudgy man have information particular to her master?
Slightly less lighthearted, Syra followed the others. As they approached the waterfront, she could smell the splash of salt water that the ships brought back with them up the Tiber. The piers creaked as the ships docked. If it were not for the ever-present heat, Syra could almost imagine herself home. It seemed that fishermen around the world were the same—full-bearded and as gnarly as their barnacle-laden boats. Even though they spoke several different tongues, cursing was plain in their tone. The cry of gulls above and the sloshing of water against the pylons spoke a universal language.
The slapping of the water lulled her mind. Just the night before, she had dreamed of a dock. But Scotland was far from here. It had been like none Syra could remember from her homeland in the North. Yet, in the dream she had known each plank intimately. Syra blushed as she remembered the full extent of the dream. Brutus had found her upon the wharf, and they had come together as oil meets fire. Their passion had awoken her in the night. Panting, she had to rise to take a sip of water before she could get back to sleep. Her dreams existed only to taunt her.
Syra turned as she heard her name called, yet no one stood near her. The others had tired of watching the boats while she had daydreamed. They had made their way to the selling tables where the fresh fish were laid out for purchase. Trying to shake off both her dream and the strange feeling of being called, Syra turned to join them, but the voice tickled her ear again. This time she surveyed the area with a much keener eye. Who else but her companions would know her name?
Off in the corner was a tiny stall, set apart from the others. Unable to see the purveyor’s face, Syra cautiously approached to find the old Scottish hag smiling a toothless grin.
“Took you long enough.”
Syra wished to gather her companions to attest to this woman’s existence, but she feared the hag would disappear again. “Why did you not speak that day to your daughter?”
“She would not understand like you.” The old woman’s plaid shawl slipped from her shoulder to reveal a dragon tattoo.
There was something hauntingly familiar about the symbol, but the hag covered it before Syra could truly study it. There was something very strange about all of this, yet she could not pull herself away as the old woman shoved a small stone toward her.
“You truly do not remember?” the hag asked.
She turned the rock over in her hand. Painted on its rough surface was an old rune—a circle with a squiggle in the center. The symbol seemed as familiar as the dragon tattoo, yet its name eluded Syra’s tongue. Had she dreamed of this? Brief snatches skittered across her vision, but none stayed long enough to grasp.
Despite her feeling of recognition, Syra shook her head. “No.”
The old woman snorted. “Perhaps I was wrong, then.” She tried to take back the stone, but Syra held tight.
“I’ve dreamed of a garden hanging from the very skies themselves,” Syra uttered without meaning to. What would this crazy woman know of such things? Her dreams were a mere flittering of her mind. Yet the reality of the Lapis Nigra cool under her touch made her uncertain.
“Have you been there?”
“Nay. I do not even know if they truly exist. Is this where the stone came from?”
“You must tell me.”
Syra could feel frustration creep into her tone. Why would this woman not spill her knowledge? “Teach me.”
The hag’s sky-blue eyes met Syra’s emerald-green ones. There was a moment when she felt certain that the old woman peered directly into her soul. After a breath, the merchant snorted again and waved her away. “There are some things you must discover on your own.”
Syra heard her name shouted, and looked over her shoulder to find Navia motioning for her to join them. Tiberius struggled to hold up a huge whitefish over his head. She waved to them, then turned back to the hag, but the old woman was gone. Syra did not bother to search for her. There would be no point. If the witch did not wish to be found, no hound could pick up her trail.
* * *
Brutus settled into the seat of the theater. He was as surprised as the other patrons that he chose to attend a play this afternoon. Upon his entrance, there were hushed whispers throughout the crowd. Tensions were high in the city. With Caesar’s departure for war so close at hand, all of the senators had been scarcely out in public. A great debate raged regarding the Cotta’s prophetic words. Rome wished to win this war, but was obviously uncertain if it wished to gain a king in the process.
He had done his best to stay clear of this squabble and had buried himself beneath piles of papyrus, making sure that all of the supplies for this war were not only bought, but purchased at a fair price. Just because the Republic’s treasu
ry was bursting, there was no use in being taken advantage of by sniveling merchants.
Yet this day, Brutus found his desk cleared. The treasury was behind in minting Caesar’s new coins. A boat had taken on water in Alexandria, which delayed a crucial leather shipment. His scribe had taken ill with a stomachache.
For the first time in over a week, Brutus was able to stroll out of the Temple of Saturn during the daylight. He had intended to strike out toward home, but he had heard the lilting voices of the actors and felt the need to sit for a while. It had been long since he had indulged in his favorite pastime. And these plays were becoming a thing of the past, much like democracy.
The new Rome eschewed Greek moral plays. The populace was now flocking to rowdy new farces, full of sex and mockery. Brutus could not tolerate these wild romps that relied on suggestive puppets and scandalous dialogue. No, he preferred the classics. Perhaps if Caesar watched Oedipus or Ulysses a few more times, this tragic course he had plotted Rome upon would change. Despite Caesar’s quest for the crown, Brutus still hoped the general would awaken one morning and realize that Rome could take no more turmoil.
A shadow crossed Brutus’ view, causing him to look up. There he found Suprinna gazing down at him with milky eyes. “You have not remembered?”
Brutus raised an arm to guard against the glare of the noonday sun. He indulged Caesar’s lunatic seer. “Nay. I have not.”
“Then you shall die, along with the rest of us.”
Distracted by the Greek chorus wailing as Oedipus blinded himself, Brutus looked back to find Suprinna gone. The only thing left in his wake was the small dart that had killed the Virgin’s stallion. Brutus turned the point over in his hand.
How had the seer obtained this piece of evidence? Antony was constantly boasting of his investigative prowess. Supposedly, the arrogant Roman appeared on the verge of discovering the perpetrator of this heinous crime. Yet here sat the single most important clue, now back in Brutus’ hand.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 13