Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  Without waiting for her answer, Brutus started down the steps that led beneath the platform. He was headed to the stables. It was where the keeper would bring the damaged carriages. Perhaps there he would find answers to the questions that burned in his mind. He bounded down the steps two at a time and arrived at the stable amongst chaos.

  A cheer rose from the crowd above, so jarring that the sound threatened to loosen a few boards overhead. Antony must have found Caesar’s head. The keeper shouted orders over the disarray, haranguing his workers into a near frenzy.

  Brutus stepped up next to him. “Sir, please. We must be diligent. Slow these men.”

  Who knew what manner of evidence was being trampled underfoot? The keeper’s face turned angry until he noticed Brutus’ purple and gold brooch that held his snowy white toga in place.

  Still, the keeper’s tone was uncompromising. “I’m sorry, but we must. Antony has told them to start the races already.”

  Leave it to Marc to worry more about the populace’s current mood than the facts. How Caesar ever elevated his charismatic lieutenant to the Chief Counselor’s position eluded Brutus. Antony was entrusted to protect Rome and the nation’s recently appointed leader from harm.

  Could Marc not see that these acts of vandalism were but shadows of the hostility that Rome felt toward Caesar? Was Antony ignoring the signs, or could he truly not see them?

  “Stop! Keep that whole!” Brutus shouted to a worker who was cracking apart the remains of Jupiter’s chariot. The man looked confused, so Brutus rushed to his side. The keeper followed close at his heels.

  “We’ve got to make room for the next wave of charioteers,” the keeper explained, as Brutus leaned over the fractured remains of the wood.

  Brutus rose to his full height and looked down on the man. “Not until we examine the chariot.”

  The keeper’s eyes held contempt, but he dared not challenge a senator. “Make it quick,” he said before he strode off to help drag Minerva’s statue out of the entrance.

  “What are we looking for?” the worker asked.

  If only he knew, Brutus thought, but did not utter. This type of intrigue was foreign to him. Now if someone wished to ferret out embezzlement of funds from an oat sale, Brutus could be of great help. Here, trying to uncover a nefarious plot, he felt far outside his expertise.

  The worker quickly tired of the inspection. “Looks like the driver made too quick a turn. We keep telling them to be careful with all that weight in back, but—”

  “May I?” a voice asked from behind.

  Brutus turned to find Syra at his shoulder. The smell of her brilliant red hair drove any thoughts of intrigue from his mind. Why was she here, and more importantly, why did she wish to view the chariot?

  Obviously, his answer was too slow in coming, for Syra asked again, “May I have a glance?”

  Tongue still immobile from the calamity that Syra always inspired, Brutus simply stepped aside. The woman knelt down in a single fluid motion. She seemed especially interested in the splintered wood of the axle.

  The worker commented as the Northerner pointed toward some hash marks on the bar. “Those are from skidding.”

  “Nay. They were made from a snub-nosed saw.”

  “No metal made those marks,” the worker grunted.

  Syra directed her answer to Brutus. “The tip of the saw is broken off, and the teeth are bent. It gives the appearance of a scrape rather than a cut.”

  Now the worker became agitated that a woman dared to tell him his job. “If that wood had been sawed through, the wheels would have spun off as soon as the horses lunged against the yoke.”

  The Northerner either did not notice the man’s hostility or did not care, for she held Brutus’ gaze. “It is a slight weakness created in the wood. It would take the stress generated by weight shifting to the left to crack all the way through.”

  Syra must have seen the unspoken question in Brutus’ eyes as she hurried on. “It is an old trick used against chariots. You sneak into camp just long enough to make this small weakness.” She pointed to the track. “Once one of the chariots crashes, it makes the drivers more hesitant to give the whip to the horse or lead the charge.” Syra wiped the wood dust from her hands as she rose. “The ploy can buy you precious seconds in battle.”

  For not the first time, Brutus realized how little he knew of this woman. When would she have needed such a technique? He could not imagine her facing down an army of chariots. Not with the gentle curve of her hip to remind him of her plentiful womanhood. But there were the scars along her back. He had assumed that they came along the slave route. What life had she lived before being captured? He had never thought to ask. And now was not the time.

  Brutus brought his mind to bear on the problem. “Sabotage, then?”

  “Aye. It seems the gods were not pleased with the Circus this day.”

  While he too worried over the gods’ favor, Brutus was certain that no divine hand had intervened. Brutus was confident beyond question that this was the work of very mortal men. Men bent on the destruction of Rome.

  * * *

  Syra watched a flow of emotions pass over Brutus’ face. They blurred together so that she could not track them. Sympathy flared for the briefest moment. To her, this was just a pleasant distraction from the slow pace of Fiona’s kitchen. The bite of excitement in the air caused her blood to hasten along its path. She could smell fear on all those around her. In an odd way, the aroma felt comfortable.

  While the skill to tuck sheets the correct way to make a formal bed still eluded her, Syra could understand deception and betrayal. They had been her bitter soup and hard bread these past few years.

  Brutus still struggled next to her when she noticed Tiberius kneeling over a downed horse. The boy’s departure from the platform had drawn Syra down the staircase, following Brutus. She walked over to the child to find him sobbing into the horse’s coat.

  “What is wrong?” Syra asked, but quickly realized the cause was obvious. The horse had broken a leg during the accident. Once the commotion died down, they would need to put the stallion out of its misery. She could understand why the boy was upset. He had a nearly unnatural way with equines. Fiona teased that centaurs had raised him. Now the joke did not seem quite so funny. The horse’s eyes rolled back in its head, and its nostrils flared in pain.

  “Shh, Tiberius. The earth will take him back with open arms.” Syra tried to comfort the boy, but still he cried.

  Brutus walked up behind them, obviously surprised to see Tiberius here as well. “Is the entire household here? Is Fiona bringing down biscuits?”

  Syra turned on her heel toward Brutus. He might be upset, but he had no right to scold Tiberius so. “No, the cook is waiting for the jasmine tea to brew.”

  She immediately regretted using such a harsh tone, for Brutus’ eyes dulled. His shoulders sagged as he mumbled an apology. Between his jab and her rebuttal, the senator must have noticed Tiberius’ sorry state, for he knelt down by the boy and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

  The child wept so hard that he could barely speak. “It’s all my fault.”

  “No, child. It was an…” Brutus raised his gaze to Syra with a questioning look. She nodded for him to proceed. Syra would not contradict him. “It was an accident.”

  “No! It’s all my fault.”

  Brutus tried to pull the child into his embrace, but Tiberius would have none of it. “You do not understand. I caused this!”

  Syra joined Brutus in trying to quiet the boy. “Shh, child. You must not speak so.”

  “You don’t understand! I am the one who damaged the chariot!” The declaration sapped Tiberius of all his strength, and he collapsed into Syra’s arms, weeping so hard that the sobbing shook his thin frame. Brutus’ eyes met Syra’s. It could not be true, could it?

  She waited until he caught his breath. Then she pushed him back a hand’s-breadth to look into his face. “Tiberius, I know that your heart is heavy w
ith sadness, but it is not good to say such untrue things.”

  The boy pulled a small amulet from under his shirt and rubbed it with all his might as he spoke. “It is, though. I… They said… If I didn’t…”

  Brutus’ patience seemed spent, for his tone was far harsher than Syra had ever heard. “How could you do such a thing?’

  Tiberius began sobbing again. “They were going to kill my sister!”

  Syra’s head jerked to look at Brutus. She had been told the boy was an orphan.

  “But she died along with your family, Ti.”

  “They said that she lived!” The child shook his head violently and showed them the small broken coin around his neck. “They had the other half.”

  “It could have been forged,” Syra offered.

  “Nay. It had ‘Kit’ inscribed. It was her nickname. They could not have known.” Tiberius collapsed into Syra’s arms. “Now she is forfeit.”

  She could see that Brutus’ temper flared, but the child was not truly to blame. How could a ten-year-old understand the workings of the world? How could he know the hurt that his deceit brought to Brutus? But it was easy for her to be so understanding. It was not her pride that had been injured.

  “Who ordered you to do this?” Brutus asked. His voice shook with rage.

  “I do not know. Two burly men jerked me aside one day in the market. I did not recognize them, I swear!”

  “Why did you not tell me?” Pain was so clear in Brutus’ tone that Syra nearly laid a hand upon his shoulder, but she restrained herself. It was not her place to comfort the senator.

  The boy’s face was half buried in Syra’s shoulder, so the words were slurred. “If I told, they would kill her. They said if I did this one last thing, they would bring me to her!”

  “One last? What else have you done?” Brutus’ angry voice brought unwelcome stares from a few of the workers. He lowered his tone. “Tiberius, what else have you done?”

  The words were but a squeak. “Caesar’s chariot.”

  “How could you?” Brutus hissed.

  “I just put some rocks in the road. It was just supposed to bump the chariot. He wasn’t supposed to be going that fast!”

  The boy descending into racking sobs again. Syra stroked Tiberius’ hair and gave Brutus a look that begged him to stop the questioning. Could he not see that the child was consumed by guilt? No boy should be given such hard choices at such a soft age.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Syra whispered to the boy, ignoring Brutus’ angry expression. “All will be forgiven.”

  “Not by him,” Tiberius said as he moved from her embrace and collapsed onto the horse again. “Not by him.”

  She stroked his back. The boy needed rest, but they needed to know one last detail. “When were they going to take you to your sister?”

  “Tonight. At the zenith of the moon I was to meet them at the Harried House.”

  Syra patted him one last time, then rose to speak with Brutus. They moved off a step to be out of ear’s reach. “They will be taking him nowhere. They mean to kill him this night.”

  “Then perhaps we should not intervene.”

  “Brutus! He is but a child.”

  The Roman’s cheeks were flushed, and he seemed to have a hard time speaking the words that his lips formed. “A child who betrayed not only me, but his country as well.”

  Something inside Syra’s chest snapped at Brutus’ attitude. “What do you know of betrayal? You have been pampered your entire life. Catered to. What do you know of desperation? What of you at ten? I doubt if you had much more difficult decisions than what grain to have for breakfast.”

  The color drained from the Roman’s skin, and he avoided her gaze. Syra softened her tone. “Imagine being stripped from your family, then responsible for your sister’s life. He made the only choice he could.”

  Brutus sounded no older than a child himself. “He could have come to me.”

  Were these noblemen so blind? “He is but an orphan, Brutus. A commoner. He could not conceive that you would care for such things.”

  The Roman truly sounded exasperated. “I have fed him, clothed him, educated him…” Brutus’ voice trailed off until it could barely be heard. “Loved him.”

  Syra realized that the anger had not been wounded pride, but a bruised heart. Could this senator really care about this scrawny stable boy? Would Brutus have protected him the way he claimed? Had both Tiberius and she misjudged him? There was only one way to find out.

  “The child is but the hand of the conspiracy. Not the mind. If you wish to uncover the foul heart of the plot, Tiberius must attend this meeting.”

  “No. You were right.” Brutus straightened and appeared the statesman again. “It is too great a risk. I shall go in his stead.”

  Her heart quickened a beat. Had she truly found a man that held honor as close to his bosom as she did? “Brutus, we hold an advantage. They do not know that we are aware of this plot. If you go, the game will turn in their favor.”

  “That may be true, but I will not allow them their folly with Tiberius anymore. The child must be protected.”

  “Aye. Someone needs be with him at the rendezvous.”

  “Then I—”

  Syra unconsciously put a hand out onto Brutus’ arm. “Look at you. Those red shoes alone will give you away.”

  Brutus drew back from her touch. “I shall go disguised.”

  Pausing, Syra studied the man before her. Did he not know that no cloak could conceal his noble lineage? His strong nose and bold chin would be spotted in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. The way he stood, walked, or even breathed, spoke of command. Even if he had been of poor birth, Syra was certain that he would have risen through the ranks more quickly than lightning struck at iron. How to explain this to the impatient Roman before her?

  “You cannot hide your height or your broad shoulders, Brutus. It must be another.”

  “I can ask no one else to endanger himself so.”

  “You do not need to. I will go.”

  Brutus’ face clouded over again. “Syra, are you daft? You talk of my shoulders. What of your… your figure? They will spot a woman all the more easily.”

  Syra did not immediately respond. She was too surprised by his attitude. Their brief moments of closeness had blinded her to how little they truly knew of one another. Brutus was only aware of the tiny sliver of her life as slave and baker of Northern pastries. The years of her life in battle were still a mystery to him. What part of his past was closed to her as well? They were truly strangers trying to act as allies.

  “Brutus, I have spent most of my life disguised as a man. I think I can do so for another night.”

  “Nay. It shall be I.”

  The boy had sobbed himself out, but was still draped over the dying horse. Syra urged the boy up.

  “Tiberius, Fiona is upstairs. Find her and let her know we will be leaving shortly.”

  “What of the horse?”

  Syra straightened the boy’s brown locks. “Brutus shall stay with him. Now go. You must rest before night.”

  Once the boy was on his way up the staircase, Syra turned back to Brutus. “You may go if you wish, Brutus, but I shall be trailing him.”

  She turned to follow, but he grabbed her by arm. “I forbid it.”

  Anger rose hot in her mouth. “So this is your true heart? You are the master and I truly the slave?”

  “Nay.” His hand tightened for a breath, then he dropped his grip.

  Syra hesitated. She was still angered, but this Roman kept her off-balance. One moment Brutus could say something to boil her blood, then look more vulnerable than a newborn babe. Now it was he who looked wounded and confused.

  “Then why deny me this?”

  “I just wish no one else to be in danger. Especially you.”

  By his tone, Syra could tell that Brutus meant his words. It was the way they came out of his lips half formed. His eyes begged her to understand without speaking anythin
g more. How could this damnable Roman tug at her heart? Now was not the time to debate such questions. They needed to go home and reason through all of the information they had found this day.

  “Brutus, if you are in danger…” Syra pointed toward the departing shadow of Tiberius, “your entire household is in danger. You cannot spare us. We are already squarely in the bull’s-eye.”

  * * *

  There was no doubting Syra’s words. Just one look at the dying horse attested to Brutus’ inability to shelter innocents from this intrigue.

  “You speak wisely. We will discuss this more at home. For now, can you escort them back?”

  “Aye,” Syra said. For a moment it appeared that she wished to say more, but the fiery woman only bowed her head slightly, then followed Tiberius up the stairs.

  Alone again, Brutus felt like slumping to his knees like the boy had done. Not for the loss of the horse, but for how utterly naïve he had been. How could he have not seen the boy’s pain? Was he that harsh a master that Tiberius could not have come to him? And now he had spoken the worst manner of things to Syra. Those things he had said about the boy had been said out of complete agony.

  Even in those heated moments, his heart had known it was he, Brutus, who had failed Tiberius. Not the opposite, but his ego had lashed out at the child. If only he could snatch those words back from the air and stuff them down deep inside him so that no other could know of his abject failure to hold his temper.

  Worse, he had seen the look upon Syra’s face when he uttered those vile words. The horror had been painfully clear. She was new to the household. The Northerner could not know that Brutus would never allow the boy to walk into harm’s way. Those rash words did not speak well of his character, but never, not even after the Styx iced over, would Brutus allow Tiberius to be injured. But would Syra ever believe him?

  Would the Northerner ever understand that he had meant no disrespect when he denied her permission to follow Tiberius? Brutus could see upon her face that she assumed he thought her incapable of such a ruse. In truth, he could already sense the depth of her strength and conviction.