If the Northerner said she could feign manhood, Brutus believed her. Could she not understand that he did not wish her hurt as Tiberius had been? Was she too foreign to understand a man’s desire to protect the women of his household? Did she not know how tightly coiled she had his heart?
“Sire, it is time,” the keeper announced.
Brutus had not realized the man had approached, let alone was standing at his side. He nodded, and the keeper knelt down and whispered a prayer into the horse’s ear. In a swift motion, the man sliced the thick meat of the beast’s neck with a sharp blade. There was only one startled whinny, then the blood gushed from the gaping wound.
How he wished to look away, but Brutus was just as responsible as Tiberius for this horse’s death. So he stood his ground. And just like the Virgin’s stallion, Brutus watched the blood soak into the ground until it pooled and streamed down the floor. Until now, Caesar’s new ambition had only been paid in animals’ lives. How long until human blood saturated the ground so deeply that it made the Tiber run red?
* * * * *
CHAPTER 11
Syra tried to calm her frayed emotions as she watched the stars pass overhead. Just a few weeks in the luxury of a mansion, and the cold iron core she had relied upon for years had softened. To protect Tiberius and herself, Syra needed to find that steely edge that had kept her alive for decades.
The anxiety ate at her stomach, making it twist and growl. In all of the battles that she had fought, Syra had never felt such trepidation. From where was this tension arising? Tonight was a mission a thousandfold simpler than the one at that Spanish knoll. Her foes would most likely not number more than three. It should be a simple thing to protect the child, yet her heart beat just a little faster at the notion.
As the moon glided across the sparkling sky, Syra realized why her mind and body were unsettled. She actually cared about the outcome. Normally, Syra fought upon principles. Her goals were always clear—it was only the outcome that was uncertain. Allies could fall around her, but she would not flinch because the battle was still to be won.
In this fight, there could be no loss. If Tiberius even sustained a scratch, Syra would consider the night a failure. How could she face Fiona in the morning if she allowed the boy to be harmed?
Until this night, Syra had never felt accountable. She lived by her own sights. But now she worried for everyone in the household.
Syra greeted none of these revelations with joy. How could a decadent city such as Rome twist her heart so? Did the grueling trek across the countryside break Syra, as it had so many others? Tonight she could not ponder such questions. She needed to brace her body and prepare her mind for the task at hand. Whoever had put this conspiracy in motion had to be discovered, found, and eliminated.
“You can still return home.” Brutus’ voice carried on the gentle night’s breeze.
* * *
Brutus’ breath caught in his throat as Syra turned to him. She was no longer the beautiful woman of just a few hours ago. The Northerner’s smooth face looked as if she had a day’s stubble upon her cheek. Her normally flowing red hair was in a severe braid and covered in soot to hide its metallic sheen. Syra must have bound her torso, for the fullness of her breasts looked like nothing more than a man’s overfondness of sweet-meats. The loose trousers hid the full curves of her hips, and the thick boots concealed her petite feet. To crown the deception, Brutus’ own thick cloak covered her delicate shoulders with its rough cloth. Syra had been most accurate in her assertion. She truly looked the man.
Only her husky voice sounded familiar. “There is no choice.”
Emerald eyes sought his. How could he let her go alone? Now it was not just Tiberius’ blood on his hands, but hers as well. “I should join you.”
Syra straightened, and her voice deepened to a tone he had never heard before. Even though she always had a thick tone, it no longer held the sensual feminine lilt. She now sounded the man as well when she spoke. “You are a senator, sir. You cannot dirty your hands in such petty intrigue.”
How he hated the rightness in her words. To be caught in the Tucson district this late at night would be quite the scandal. No one in his position would follow the boy. They would use an agent. But still his blood fought against the notion. It was his household, and he should defend it. Society be damned.
Syra must have sensed his unease, for she took a step closer and lowered her voice back to its natural pitch. “Do not fret so. I will be back before the sun crests the hills.”
That would not be soon enough for Brutus. How he wished to stroke that rough cheek. No matter the sight before him, he would kiss those dirty lips in an instant if the moment were ripe. But Syra did not come closer. Instead, the Northerner headed back toward the house.
“We should rouse him. I wish to be positioned well before the rendezvous.”
Brutus only nodded, and followed. He feared that his voice would betray his sudden rush of desire.
* * *
Syra was glad that her boots tracked the ground well. For a moment back in the garden she had felt like reaching out to the Roman. Not for a man’s sharing of good-bye, but to lean on him for reassurance. Had she gone mad? Tonight was nothing more than a business arrangement. Brutus had paid a steep price for her on the auction block. The feelings that stirred back there were nothing more than the two’s shared concern for the boy.
A noise came from the hallway, and both Syra and Brutus slid back into the shadows. Everyone was supposed to be asleep. The rest of the house had gone to bed hours ago. It would not do for anyone else to know of this mission. Even a casual remark at the market could undo their plan to keep Brutus’ involvement secret. Syra evened her breath as they waited for the servant to finish raiding the kitchen. It seemed that Horat had not gotten enough of the chicken potpie that Fiona had cooked for dinner.
As the minutes passed, Syra studied the wall across from her. A mural stretched along the entire length of the wall. In bold yellow, orange, and red, the artist showed a mighty battle amongst slavers and half a dozen griffins. The great winged lions swooped down upon the evil men, scattering their forces and rescuing a huddled mass of children. She would need their strength this night. Syra could not allow her unease to slow her blade or weaken her legs. Tiberius was far more important than her uncertain heart.
Finally the manservant filled his belly and went back to his bedchamber. Creeping down the hallway, Syra carefully opened the boy’s door, only to find Tiberius gone.
Looks of concern passed over both their faces as they searched the room for any signs of a struggle. It was Brutus who found the note upon the child’s pillow.
Brutus read the note in a whispered voice. “What I have done, I must undo.”
Damn the boy. Tiberius was thinking like someone who had only lived ten years. What was done could never be undone. And now the child had a head start. She must hurry if she hoped to catch up.
“There is little time,” Syra said as she strode out of the room.
“Wait. There is something I wish to give you.”
Syra did not have time for some exchange of nostalgia. She needed to be scaling walls. But Brutus darted into his den and emerged quickly with a small dagger.
“Here. The handle is well balanced, and the blade is the cleanest I have seen.”
Syra took the offered weapon and was surprised at the feel of its smooth bone handle. Roman smithies tended toward ornate, unusable handles these days.
“Where did you get this?”
Brutus’ eyes shone with pride. “My great-great-grandfather used it to dethrone the ancient kings. I thought it might bring luck this night.”
Syra accepted the gift gingerly. She was most unused to accepting presents. She did not like to feel indebted to anyone. Even less to a Roman.
Her lips had difficulty forming the correct response. “Thank you.”
“Use it well.”
Syra nodded to hide her unease as she strode down th
e hallway. Once out of the house, she made her way to the eastern wall.
“The gate is to the west,” Brutus indicated, looking puzzled.
“He’s had too much of a head start. I will have to cut the route.”
An eyebrow shot up on the senator’s face, but he did not question her further. Syra was greatly relieved. For some reason she did not wish to reveal that ever since her first day here, she had plotted several escape routes. Old habits died hard, and this night they would become important. Without further awkward words, Syra slunk through the foliage and scaled the retaining wall with little effort.
Feeling the quickening of her blood, she ran along Senator Xavier’s wall, keeping to the shadows, then hopped over another wall. The Sacred Way took too long to wind down Palatine Hill. And on the broad boulevard, her headlong rush would be easily spotted. Instead, she would zigzag through the various grounds and reach Tucson Road in half the time. She hoped it would save precious minutes in catching up with the errant stable boy.
Her lungs greeted the cool air with joy. It had been too long since she used her body for anything more taxing than stirring a bowl of marmalade. While her task was grim, her body rejoiced in its vitality. Muscles too long cramped stretched and sang their own song. With her feet sure under her, Syra scaled the last wall and landed upon the edge of Tucson Road. Whoever threatened Tiberius was in for a sore surprise.
Carefully, she traveled down the twisted street. The red torches gave an ominous glow to the road, but they cast deep, long shadows that made stealth nearly effortless. She knew the Harried House lay to her right, but approached the courtyard from the south instead. She wished her entrance to be secret from even Tiberius.
Syra slipped through a crack in the crumbling wall and surveyed the courtyard. This area was only illuminated by the waxing moon. At first, she hoped that she had beaten the child to the rendezvous, but across the courtyard, tucked away in a doorway stoop, sat Tiberius. Syra surveyed the adjacent buildings. In this dim light, there were far too many hiding places for a second accomplice to hide. How the warrior wished the boy had listened to her. She should have searched the entire area before allowing the small child to enter into such an obvious trap.
The shuffle of leather against the stone courtyard heralded Tiberius’ contact. The boy had not exaggerated either the man’s size or smell. The odor preceded the brute by at least three steps. Syra was too far away to hear their hushed words, but she could hear the child’s anxious tone.
Creeping from her hiding place, Syra slowly approached the argument. Tiberius stepped out from his hiding place long enough for her to see the fear on the boy’s face. All it took was a glint of metal for Syra to bolt across the courtyard. The man had enough time for a single swipe at Tiberius. Luckily, the boy was agile and ducked out of harm’s way.
Syra slammed into the huge man at full speed, burying the dagger that Brutus had given her up to the hilt. A bellow of pain exploded from the brute’s chest. Despite the deep wound, the man threw her off and regained his footing. Syra spun away from the attacker and prepared the blade for another round.
She wasn’t expecting a blow from behind. Dropping to her knees in pain, her arms raised to protect against a second blow, Syra’s eyes met the eyes of the boy whom she was supposed to be protecting. Tiberius’ arm was raised to attack.
“Be gone!” Tiberius’ voice shook.
Recovering from the shock, Syra found her feet and nimbly danced back from the boy. “Never. Explain thineself.”
The child’s eyes flickered from her to the brute who leaned against the wall to support his weight. Blood streamed from the gut wound. As the man slumped, Tiberius raced to his side.
“Father? Dear gods, no!”
Father? Syra asked in her own mind. Did this tale convolute even further? For an orphan, Tiberius’ life was cluttered with family.
“What is the meaning of this?” she finally asked, as Tiberius slumped to his knees by the bleeding man.
“Why did you stab him?”
“He meant to strike you.”
The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He was just mad that I told Brutus. He wasn’t going to hurt me.”
“There was a knife.”
“Nay! It was just silver in his hand.”
Tiberius pointed, and Syra saw her mistake. When the man fell, he had dropped the silver onto the ground. The glint she had seen was just a handful of coins. Her mind still reeled with questions.
“Tiberius, you spoke of no father earlier. You said your hand was forced by your sister’s abduction.”
The boy continued putting pressure on the man’s wound, but his eyes were downcast. The fire in them had vanished. With the anger gone, shame crept in. Tiberius’ lower lip trembled as he spoke.
“Brutus would not have understood.”
“I’m afraid that I do not, either.”
For the first time, the man grumbled. “You should. These aristocrats! What do they know of suffering? If they want to squabble amongst themselves, why shouldn’t we take their money?”
Syra’s anger might be blunted by Tiberius’ sorrowful face, but she had no such concern for this bloated man. “I notice that it was not you in the face of danger, sir. You used your son poorly.”
Tiberius rose between the arguing adults. “I tried to tell him that Brutus was a good man, but…”
She put a hand upon the child’s shoulder. “I am sorry for the life you have been forced to live, Tiberius, but do not try to justify hurting a man, any man, for profit.”
The boy’s shoulders shook. “Just allow us passage from the city, Syra. We won’t ever come back. I promise.”
“What of Brutus?”
“Tell him you couldn’t find me. Tell him—” Tiberius must have seen the look cross her face. Asking Syra to lie was not the route to walk at this moment. “Tell him the truth, then, but please let me take my father across the river.”
The man had already struggled to his feet and glared at Syra.
“I will not impede your travels, but what Brutus decides upon hearing this will be up to the senator.”
“Yes! Yes!” Tiberius squealed as he moved to his father’s side. “Thank you, Syra.”
“Do not thank me, child. Just remember forever the look upon Brutus’ face this afternoon.”
The boy’s enthusiasm waned, and his lips turned down. “Please tell him how sorry I am. I never meant for him to know.”
“That is the catch, Tiberius. Someone always knows, even if it is just you.” With that said, Syra turned away before her disgust rose further. To use a child in such as way nauseated her. That people earned their livelihood this way rattled her to her core. It seemed that Rome truly attracted the filth that lined pickling barrels.
As she strode across the courtyard, another figure emerged from the shadows. Syra raised her dagger, but realized it was Brutus. It took her a moment to recognize him, for his face was twisted with rage. The senator had not left the matter alone as he had promised, and now he had found far more answers than he wished.
“Finish them,” he hissed.
“I will do no such thing,” Syra answered as she handed the dagger back to him. “If you wish it done, you must wield the blade yourself.”
The Roman did not accept the blade. “If you will not do this, how do I know if I can trust you?”
“You don’t,” Syra answered plainly and shoved the bloody knife toward Brutus. Still he did not take the weapon. “If it requires killing a child to gain your trust, I would rather not have it.”
* * *
Brutus stared at the woman standing in front of him. His hand shook with unspent anger as he took the weapon from the disguised Northerner. Even dressed as a man, could her feminine heart not understand the depth of his betrayal? Could she not see that he could no longer trust her? He could trust none of them. His home, always a sanctuary, had been fouled by this deception. If he could not trust the people allowed into his own home, where could
he ever find solace?
He wished to say many things to this foreigner, but his tongue was thick in his mouth. Syra did not speak again. She only turned away and disappeared between a crack in the wall. He turned back to the source of his betrayal. The child who Brutus once thought orphaned was helping his father out of the courtyard. Several silver coins glistened in the moonlight.
So small a price to destroy a life, Brutus thought. In several long strides, Brutus reached the two who had undone his trust.
“You will go nowhere.”
Tiberius swung around with sheer terror in his eyes. Any murderous rage Brutus might have had dissipated upon the sight of the boy’s face as he eyed the bloody dagger in the senator’s hand.
“Please, don’t!” the boy begged. Not for his own life, but for that of his father’s.
The stench of the man assaulted Brutus’ nostrils. Had the brute rolled in stale wine? From the bloodshot rims of the man’s eyes and ruddy nose, Brutus was probably not far off the mark. It was then that he recognized the thick hands and cruel lips of the brute.
“It was you!” Brutus could not help but exclaim. A year ago the senator had come upon a merchant beating his young, orphaned slave. Brutus had taken pity on the scrawny child and bought him from the man. Now it came to light that it was the father selling off the son.
“Did you profit from my generosity only to destroy me?”
By the smirk on the man’s face, Brutus had his answer. The Roman needed to steady himself as his head spun. This plot was over a year old. Suddenly these two before him were nothing. Brutus needed to discover who would conceive of such a long and tortuous plot.
Blood surged in his veins. “I would have every right under the law to leave both of you gutted and ready for the Styx.”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 16