“Perhaps,” the young woman said as she turned and paced the room. The royalty seemed to fade from her face. Gradually, Brutus could see the young girl beneath the elaborate makeup. She could barely be over two decades, he realized. So young, and already the mother of two children and the consort to the most powerful man in the world. But in this moment with her lip trembling, she seemed more scared than threatening.
“Is something the matter, Cleopatra?”
The young Queen unconsciously bit her lip before she answered. “Did you find nothing strange this evening?”
There was much he found unusual this night, but none that he would voice to the Egyptian. “I do not know of which you speak.”
“The guards. Did you recognize any of them?”
“Nay,” Brutus answered. He had noticed not a single centurion since entering the palace. Brutus had assumed it was an edict from Cleopatra herself. “They were all your men.”
“Did you know that Caesar has excused his personal guard?”
“What? No? He would not.”
Cleopatra stated bluntly, “He has.”
Brutus mind sped uncontrollably. Why would the general do such a thing? Could he not feel the very spark in the air? How could Julius not notice the frank hostility in the Curia every time he stepped foot on the stage?
“Why?” Brutus finally asked.
“He says…” The Queen had to stop as her voice shook. “He says that he must show this Senate of yours trust. That he fears nothing—not the Parthinians, or his own people.”
Brutus sighed. It was such a thing for Julius to do. At times, Caesar’s arrogance blinded him to the dangers lurking just within an arm’s length. Had Julius learned nothing from Labienus? Caesar’s first lieutenant had betrayed him in a most critical hour. Labienus had taken up arms with Pompey and fought Caesar within an inch of defeat. This duplicity had nearly lost Julius the civil war. Would it now cost him his life?
“You must speak with him, Brutus. You must convince him to double his guard.”
“You have petitioned the wrong man, I am afraid.”
“You would let those vultures carve him? We both know Cassius’ heart. The smell of assassination reeks in the air.”
“Even if I were to speak with him on such matters, he would not listen. You must employ Antony or—”
The royal façade slipped away completely as tears sprang to the young woman’s eyes. “He will listen to no one. But you… He holds affection for you, Brutus.”
“Of that I do not know, but I do know that Caesar holds no faith in my counsel.”
“You might sway him.”
Brutus felt the light weight of Tiberius’ necklace in his sash. A child had paid the price for his stubbornness already. He would not cross the Virgin again until he was in a position to protect those close to him.
For this reason, the Roman could offer Cleopatra no solace. “I am sorry, Queen, but he is a grown man and the leader of Rome. He must make his own decisions.”
The Egyptian regained her composure, and the room seemed to cool several degrees. “Then we have nothing further to discuss.”
In a rustle of silk and gold braid, the Queen left the way she had entered. Within moments, the guard returned and escorted him from the palace. Upon entering the litter, Brutus wondered which was worse—to save Rome and kill Caesar, or spare the man but kill the Republic?
* * *
Syra began to tire of her wandering. Melancholy had shrouded her since speaking to the hag atop Rome’s wall. Her mind seemed unable to reconcile her nightly dreams and this woman’s strange presence. Something nagged. It felt like she had forgotten some task. Something urgent. Like when she laid her head upon her bedroll and realized she had forgotten to water her horse.
But now the sun had set, and the moon was on the rise as Syra’s feet complained. It was time to go home. She would finish her tour of the waterfront, then climb the hill to the mansion.
A gathering of citizens drew her attention. It was getting late, even for Romans, to be out on the street. Curious by nature, she edged closer to the crowd. It seemed something had washed up on the shore. With all the boats plying the river, it could be anything. Just last week a chest of silver goblets had crashed against the bank, spewing tableware over the sloping mud.
From the hushed voices, Syra doubted that bounty had made its way to the shore. Her attention piqued, she shouldered her way to the front. Syra found a sad sight. A body had washed up from the river. It wasn’t until the corpse was turned over that Syra’s breath left her body.
It was Tiberius!
Dear gods, what had happened? The boy was slashed across the face and his clothes were tattered. Despite seeing far worse on the battlefield, she felt a retching in her belly. Covering her mouth, Syra stumbled back from the crowd. Without another word, she fled the bank. Could his father have done this? Tiberius had said the man would not hurt him, but Syra had seen the father raise a hand—and the stark fear in the boy’s face.
Her stomach felt heavy, but her legs were strong as she rushed home. Brutus must know of this. Perhaps he could sort out what had happened. No matter the cause of little Ti’s death, Syra could not help but feel ashamed. She should have made certain that the boy escaped this blasted city. Instead, she had sought a tavern to drown her own petty sorrows. Now the child had paid the price for her laxity.
Syra had circled Rome for hours, but within a few minutes she was up Palatine Hill. Rushing through the door, Syra was glad to see that the household had retired. It was best that the other servants did not hear this dire news until the morning. She set the bag of tomatoes upon the butcher’s block. Not that the cook would care much about the fruit once she heard Tiberius’ fate.
Rapidly, Syra checked Brutus’ den. His purple sash was thrown across his chair. The senator was home, but where? Dare she wake him? A rustling came from the garden. Someone was out in the night air. With any luck, it would be Brutus. Syra knew he had been angered at the child, but she also knew the Roman would be devastated to hear of Tiberius’ demise.
Bursting out the door, Syra hurried up the small hill to the bench where Brutus and she had once held a history lesson. The senator sat hunched over upon the wooden seat. His shoulders seemed broken under the weight of these last few weeks, and the news she carried would not lighten his load. Before she spoke, Syra noticed a glint of metal in his hands. His fingers fretted over the smooth token. Her mouth was ready to announce her news when she realized the amulet’s owner. It was Tiberius’ necklace.
Her foot caught a piece of vine, and she stumbled forward. It was not the father who had lanced Tiberius, but the man before her. How could Brutus have done such a thing? The senator must have doubled back after she left to finish the job that he was so eager to accomplish. Everything she had trusted about the Roman was shattered.
To think that she had dared hope that Brutus was unlike the rest of Rome. How could she have imagined that this dark-haired senator could feel for commoners such as Tiberius and herself? The bastard used men and children alike—discarding them once they no longer served his purpose.
Why had she been concerned for his safety when it should have been her own and the others in this household she worried over?
Brutus sullied himself in the worst possible way. Anger made her sight blur and words were slow to come to her lips. What could she possibly say that would make this Roman hurt as she did? For it was not just the cuts on the boy’s face that wounded her, it was Syra’s damaged heart that cried out for revenge.
Brutus must have sensed her presence, for he turned to her. “Syra?”
Without thinking, Syra lashed out, back-handing Brutus. “Bastard!”
“How dare you!” Anger flashed as he touched his bloody lip.
“They found his body.”
“Whose?”
Syra snatched the necklace from his hand. “Do not feign innocence, Brutus. I know your dark deed.”
She expected much
from the Roman in response, but not his form slumping down to the bench. Brutus lowered his head into his hands. His back spasmed with a half-contained sob. What manner of mockery was this?
“You will not gain my sympathy this way. Take responsibility like a man.”
“What do you think I am doing?” Brutus’ voice strained.
Syra’s anger knew no bounds. “You should be at the Rostra, throwing yourself on the mercy of the courts. For you will find none with me.”
The Roman’s face lifted, and his swollen eyes locked hers. “Think what you will, but I did not kill the boy.”
Rage shook her frame. He lied once more. His deceit should not have surprised Syra. A child-killer could not be trusted with the truth. Why had she ever listened to a single word of this Roman’s? She wished to pull the carving of the Green Man and break it upon her knee. Syra wanted nothing to remind her of this foul deed. He would pay for his crimes. Pay for making her like him in just the smallest measure.
“If you do not turn yourself in, then I shall.”
Once again, the Roman’s head hung. “Go ahead. It was my fault.”
“You betray yourself yet again!” Syra shouted, not caring if she woke the entire household. They needed to see what their master was made of.
Brutus’ voice rose with anger. “I betray no one, woman. Tiberius was killed to force me into betrayal.” The heat bled from the Roman’s face. “I do not expect you to understand. Just go. Do what you must, but leave this place and do not return. I will have no more blood upon my hands.”
“Liar!”
Brutus sagged again. His voice was no more than a whisper. “Go. Take the pendant. Have the guards called. I will not bar you.”
As much as Syra wanted to act on his words, her feet stood firm next to him. What manner of deception was the Roman trying to weave? It made no sense. Why would he let her loose to point an accuser’s finger? Did he think she made as easy a target as an injured father and his young son?
Despite her desire to curse him, Syra could remember the sag of his shoulders that night when he left Tiberius. Not only had Brutus stayed his hand against lashing out at the child, she could remember the warmth she had felt toward the Roman when he had allowed the boy to gather the silvers from the ground. How could she reconcile that image with the lacerated corpse?
“Explain thineself,” Syra demanded. She would not leave until her heart was certain of Tiberius’ last moments.
“It is none of your concern.”
Syra grabbed Brutus’ shoulder and pulled him to look at her. “It is. You… I…” She groped for words. Her angry emotions threatened tears. “I trusted you.” The words came out a hiss. Syra had not even realized the impact of the sentence until she had spoken it.
His face clouded over. “You cannot any longer. I am caught in a web not of my own spinning. Leave this city before you become ensnared.”
The pain that etched his handsome features broke through Syra’s anger. But how could she trust him? He had Tiberius’ necklace in his hand. Only the killer would have such an item. She felt the silver pendant in hers. It was still warm from Brutus’ touch. Was it guilt that made him keep the evidence? Or was he speaking the truth?
“If you did not kill Tiberius, how did you come by his token?”
“It is a foul story, Syra. Just leave and be glad you are free of Rome.”
Now that the rage had fled her body, Syra could see the agony heavy upon Brutus. Still, guilt could weigh upon a man. Who was to say he was not trying to divert blame? Perhaps he was trying to sweeten her with honeyed words rather than violence. Either way, she would not be silenced. Tiberius deserved better than that. The child deserved the truth.
“I will not leave until I decide for myself if you are to blame.”
Brutus shook his head. “The politics are confused even to me, Syra. Just believe that the situation will get no better for a long while.”
“Do not underestimate me, Brutus. I fought with Sextus in Spain. I know of Rome’s turmoil.”
Finally in a gush like that of a fountain too long clogged, Brutus detailed the convoluted intrigue that had ensnared them all. It was a vicious match being played upon the game board named Rome. It seemed no matter one’s rank, everyone sought someone as a pawn.
Syra was still confused. “I do not understand. Why would the Virgin use Tiberius to do these deeds against Caesar?”
“When the time was right, she would have revealed Tiberius’ actions. Everyone would assume that I put the child up to the task.”
“But what would that have accomplished?”
Brutus sighed, seeming almost too tired to explain further. “With my life in danger, the Virgin assumed I would turn to the conspiracy. I would have been forced to kill Caesar to save myself.”
Syra sank onto the bench next to him, soaking in the tortured words.
“Why did you not tell me?” she asked.
The Roman’s eyes sought hers. “When you refused me vengeance against Tiberius that night, I thought you a traitor as well.”
“Betrayal is not in my nature,” Syra answered, her voice husky.
Brutus’ face looked more dead than alive. “Before I left for the palace, the Virgin’s assistant gave me Tiberius’ necklace. She meant to secure my silence.”
“Did she?”
“Only for a time.” The Roman’s voice took on new passion. “If you trust nothing else, know that Symphia will pay.”
“Yes, she will,” Syra echoed. This she-bitch who roamed the city cloaked in white virtue would be brought low.
Brutus’ hand came up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “I will not see you injured as Tiberius was.”
There was a trail of warmth along her skin where his finger had brushed. “Nor I, you.”
Drained of anger, Syra’s chest filled with another hot emotion. She tried to restrain her body, but being so close to the Roman, with both their hearts so exposed, taxed her defenses. Would that he had been the killer. She could have slain him and been done with it. Now her soul ached to comfort Brutus. To comfort them both.
Seeing the pain in his gaze, her hand reached out without her mind instructing it. Gently Syra stroked the cut to Brutus’ lip that she had caused. “I am sorry for even this.”
The Roman cupped her hand in his. “It hurts no longer.”
Syra found herself pulled toward him as if an invisible string tugged her forward. They were so near that she could feel the heat of his breath upon her cheek. His eyes flickered as he tried to read her features—perhaps wondering if he dared come near. Could he not feel the tremble of her hand? The quickening of her pulse as the aroma of his skin caressed her?
The gods could condemn her, but Syra wished for him to pull her in. She had seen so much tragedy in her life. Could she not steal a single moment of pleasure? Her heart did not seem so weighted when she was near this Roman. Brutus brought a spark to her soul that she had thought eternally dead.
The grip on her hand tightened as the Roman guided her even closer. There was but a parchment’s width between their lips. Syra lost control of her restraint and entwined her fingers in his, feeling the strength in his palm. There was so much pain in those gray eyes still. Not even this moment of passion could cauterize his wounds.
For this she desired to feel the moisture of his lips even more. Carefully, Brutus brought his other hand to her neck. There his thumb stroked the tender flesh beneath her ear. Gooseflesh flew up and down her arms, making her feel weak, yet burning.
They were so intimate that her breasts could feel his bare chest through the thin gauze of her dress. Her nipples tightened in anticipation. Not even frozen water could harden them so. Brutus tilted his head ever so slightly. Their lips were apart, yet she could already feel his desire in the space between them. The musky scent of his breath. His quickened pulse pounding against her palm. Closing her eyes, Syra surrendered to this Roman.
“Brutus!” a shrill voice called from th
e house.
They were still locked to one another as Brutus’ eyes dilated. His voice filled with horror. “Lylith.”
* * *
Brutus felt Syra’s hand slip away. The Northerner was out of his grasp and into the dense garden before he could apologize.
“Brutus! Why was no one up to greet me?” his wife squeaked as she walked across the grass. Her lips frowning at the moisture that was sure to ruin her new gilded sandals.
It was hard to speak to his wife when he could still smell the cinnamon on Syra’s lips. He had come so close to tasting the Northerner in a way he had dreamed of since their first meeting. Now Brutus walked inside a nightmare as Lylith berated him for a hundred oversights. It did not seem that his wife had seen their near kiss.
“Lylith, you were not to arrive until tomorrow morn,” Brutus choked out. His throat still constricted with passion.
“Is that your excuse? You are just lucky your mother was delayed by her seamstress. Otherwise, you would receive quite the tongue-lashing.”
Brutus straightened to face his shrewish wife. “I do not have time for such things, Lylith. It is best if you find your quarters—”
“Oh, I shall, and you shall join me.”
He let out a strangled chuckle. He would not regret telling his wife that he would never share her chamber again. Not after knowing the feel of Syra’s warm flesh beneath his fingertips.
Lylith paused in the doorway when she realized he was not following. “The Ides bode badly for all of us if you do not join me.”
Brutus was caught unawares by her proclamation. His wife seldom cared about true politics. Lylith was more concerned with petty squabbles amongst the women of Rome rather than the Republic. And what could his shrewish wife defend him against? She spoke idiocy, and his body yearned to search out Syra.
Since Brutus turned away from her, Lylith’s voice raised. “Do you think me nothing more than a bauble, Brutus? Do you underestimate the daughter of Cato so grievously? Would you rather me go to Caesar with what I know?”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 20