Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  No matter how blistered her heart, she could not deny the old woman’s words. Rome’s song did thrum in her bones. Tears sprang to her already reddened eyes. But this time it was not the pain of humiliation that caused the moisture. It was an ache that begged her to stay. A sense of loss held her trapped so very close to her escape. But what was here to hold her? A busy, smelly city that cared not for her. Worse than that, really. Rome seemed to be aiming its hostility directly at her heart.

  “At the least, take me with you,” a winded voice spoke from behind. Syra swung around to find the old woman hobbling up, leaning heavily on her cane. “You should not have followed.”

  “You go to Scotland, do you not?”

  Until the hag spoke it, Syra had not really known her destination. But the old woman’s words had a sense of rightness to them. “Aye.”

  “Take me.”

  Even if Syra did not have a heated animosity for this hag, how could she consider the old woman’s request? “I must travel light and fast. I will be a wanted woman by the morn.”

  The hag did not seem surprised to hear Syra’s words. Instead, she seemed resigned. The old woman held out a pack.

  “Then take this. You will need it.”

  Syra’s back stiffened at the old woman’s boldness. She needed nothing. “Keep it for your own travels.” Spitting, Syra refused to take the satchel.

  The old woman’s face flushed with anger. “So you mean to flee in a party dress. Will you eat the frills, then? Hunt with the pins in your hair?”

  “Do not goad me further, woman.”

  “Or what? Will you whip me with the thin straps of your sandal?”

  Syra could feel the rage coming back in to her stomach. Did the woman not realize she could snap her in half? It would take no weapon to shut this hag’s mouth forever.

  The old woman tossed the bag at Syra’s feet. “Take it or not.”

  Syra looked down at the stuffed pack. When she lifted her eyes, the hag was gone. For someone so crippled, the old woman was surprisingly spry.

  Tentatively, she reached a hand out. On top of the bag lay a set of man’s clothes. Thick breeches and a rough cloak. Just the disguise she needed to slip from Rome’s clingy embrace. Still, it nagged at Syra. Why had the old woman offered such a thing? Why help her escape when just a few moments ago, the hag had nearly beaten her over the head to stay?

  Swallowing down her concern, Syra grabbed the clothes and hurriedly dressed before her limbs betrayed her. Even now, her eyes sought the multitude of torches marking the Forum. How could she have so sorely misjudged Brutus? Was she so used to a feather bed that she could not fathom living on the hard earth again? Steeling herself against such doubts, Syra tossed her dress aside and boldly opened the wooden door.

  Within seconds, she was at the top of the wall. Amassed in front of her was Caesar’s great army. But that was not her destination. She did not wish to go east. North was her direction. North to home.

  * * *

  Brutus found himself at another dead end. Slamming his hand against the wall, he cursed his luck. It had been long since he had roamed the streets of the city. He had been searching for Syra for hours, yet was still empty-handed. Brutus had checked at home first, but of course, her bed was vacant. The city gates were closed this night for the celebration, not that he did not think her capable of scrambling up and over an unguarded section of wall, but Brutus did not think she had left Rome. Would his heart not ache ever worse if she were gone? Perhaps it was arrogance on his part, but Brutus did not think the Northerner could just leave like that.

  There was one other place she might have gone. Down at the wharf with Tiberius. Brutus could not believe the Northerner would leave Rome without visiting the boy one last time.

  Backtracking, Brutus angled toward the east. He would make his apologies to Tiberius, and if Syra were not there, he would travel to Antony’s. If his search was still unfruitful, Brutus would have to admit that his quest was futile. How that thought weighed heavy upon his heart! There was so much he regretted doing in so short a time. He never should have bent to Lylith’s will. He should have been stronger. For Rome, for himself, for Syra. Would he ever have the chance to tell her such things?

  A motion caught Brutus’ attention. It was the third time on this search that he had felt someone was just beyond the periphery of his vision. He swung around swiftly, but once again, there was no one. Sounds echoed off the empty streets from the Forum, making it hard to discern if anyone followed. The threat from Cassius still hung over his head like a cloud from a brewing storm.

  Shrugging off his sense of unease, Brutus quickened his pace. The docks were not far. As he approached the wharf, his mind filled with trepidation. Brutus had painstakingly avoided coming face to face with his abject failure. Now the pain was doublefold. For his inaction, the boy was dead, and Syra was gone.

  Bracing himself, Brutus entered the shack. The smell of death was almost overwhelming, but he inched forward. The boy’s face was nearly unidentifiable from the river’s cruelty. Still, Brutus could not turn away, for two coins graced the boy’s eyes, and the tiny necklace once again graced the child’s neck. Brutus had no doubt who had placed them there. It was Syra.

  Even this faint connection to the woman brought shame heavy to Brutus’ heart. How could he have failed everyone he cared for so miserably? He had placed far too much emphasis on his own life—wreaking havoc and destruction in everyone else’s path to secure his own.

  It stopped now.

  Shutting the door behind him, Brutus strode out into the street. Now he must consider that Syra had truly fled Rome. Still, he might be able to find her before she made her final escape. Horat had mentioned Syra’s habit of strolling the western wall. Setting a course straight there, his mind spun.

  How could his life have taken such a tragic turn? The Fates seemed intent on grinding his heart as if it were a sample of grain. What would he be left with when the Fates were through with him? Could he ever redeem himself from this horrible night? As the evening dragged on, Brutus became less and less certain of the answer.

  Torchlight spilled from an open doorway up ahead. Quickening his pace, Brutus felt hope surge in his veins. Perhaps he was not too late after all. Perhaps Syra was still in Rome. At a near run, he shortened the distance, but skidded to a halt once he arrived at the wall.

  There upon the ground was a crumpled green dress. Reaching out with an unsteady hand, Brutus picked up the garment. Syra’s scent was still thick upon the cloth—more intoxicating than the most expensive perfume in the market. The aroma filled his nostrils as tears sprang to his eyes. To be so very close. He raced up the stairway and looked out over the lands, but it was clear she was long away from here.

  Brutus gripped the stone wall, digging his fingers until they bled. In disguise, it would be impossible to track the Northerner. A part of him still wished to try, though. Caesar be damned. Rome be damned. But Brutus could not bring himself to call the guard. For what would he accomplish even if he followed her? Some wounds could not be healed.

  * * *

  Hiding behind the thick brush by the river, Syra lay in wait. A ship had dropped anchor not far from the shore. Many ships spent the night downstream of Rome rather than paying another night in the overpriced docks. In the morning, it would sail south to the Mediterranean. Most of the crew had retired earlier, but a few sailors still dotted the deck. Despite her pulse pounding in her ears, Syra kept low to the ground. In moments such as these, patience was hard to come by. The compulsion to flee Rome and the men who dwelled within its walls was strong.

  Finally, the straggling crew retired below deck, leaving the night watchman the only one visible. Still, Syra stayed hidden. It would not do to be caught so early in her journey home. Her plan required stealth. She would stow away until this ship reached Osteria at the mouth of the Mediterranean. There, a ship heading west to the ocean would be easy to find. By the snow’s fall, Syra would be back in Scotland.


  Making sure that no other stirred, Syra crept forward. With her pack slung across her back, she inched her way to the edge of the bank. Only a few feet of water lapped between the wooden hull and the sandy shore.

  Using all of the energy born of frustration and shame, Syra crouched low, then sprang from the ground into the air. She hit the hull hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs, but the ship was large and did not rock an inch. Holding tight to the wooden rail, Syra stayed perfectly still, listening for the sound of footsteps. After several painful breaths, Syra climbed over the side and gently landed on the deck.

  Hidden in the shadows of the bridge, Syra crouched down and listened once again. Only the sound of crickets singing to their intended broke the quiet night. Sneaking toward the hatch that led to the hold, Syra froze as voices drifted on the lingering breeze. Another had joined the sailor on deck. Carefully, Syra made her way to the hatch. Biting her lip at the effort, she lifted the hatch door then lowered herself below deck.

  The holds were filled with all colors and textures of textiles. Making certain that no one else occupied the most forward hold, Syra settled in for the most dreadful night of her life.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 15

  Brutus stumbled through the afternoon. After a sleepless night of worrying about Syra, he had trouble feeling truly awake. Somehow he had avoided anyone that might disturb the soothing fog that settled over his mind. There was much to do, much to consider, yet he was numb to it all. Since the Senate would not assemble until the next day, Brutus had sought out the one place in all of Rome that would embrace him like the green-eyed lover he would never know.

  The Tabularium.

  Brutus breathed in the stale air of the ancient archive. He was deep within the repository’s vaults. The crumbling parchments were a balm to his wounded heart. With the history of Rome blanketing him, Brutus felt an ounce of reprieve from his life of turmoil. Every scrap of papyrus that had ever passed through the Forum found its eternal home down in these crypts of knowledge.

  Squinting in the waning candlelight, Brutus lit another wick. Time crept sluggishly down in this bowel of the city. Soon, he would have to emerge from his self-imposed exile and attend dinner with Caesar. Then, and only then, might this weight lift from his chest. After this night, he should be free of the snarled trap. Brutus dreamed of nothing more challenging than a quiet life in the countryside. Let these others carve out history on their own.

  Brutus cocked an ear as a sound echoed off the long hallways. The deeper levels of the Tabularium were built like tombs. The thick rock protected the vital information from war and fire alike. They also insulated the vault from the clamorous noise of the Forum. While the rest of the city slept off its binge from the night before, workers were still clearing the massive tables from the Forum Square.

  Another scuff drew Brutus’ attention. This time there was no mistaking the sound of footsteps. He was not surprised by the intrusion. He was only amazed that it had taken someone so long to find him. By the crisp step of one, it was certainly Cassius. The second had a slight limp on the left side—Cicero. The third he did not recognize.

  Cassius was the first to come into view. His face held his usual caustic smirk. Cicero, though, seemed winded by the long walk down the stairs. Perhaps he had ingested too much wine and sweetmeats the night before. The third man surprised Brutus. It was Longius, Lylith’s brother.

  Brutus rose to greet his uninvited guests.

  “You’ve posted no guard, Brutus? Do you grow lax?” Cassius asked. Brutus doubted if he expected an answer.

  “There is nothing for us to discuss, gentlemen. It would be best if you continued your day above in the light of Rome’s glory.”

  “Brutus, please. Tomorrow the dawn rises upon the Ides. We must speak,” Cicero nearly begged.

  Brutus did not wish a long debate. His patience was long spent. He knew, perhaps better than any other, what the “morrow would bring.” “I will render my decision in the morning.”

  “You will render? Who do you think you are, Brutus?” Cicero asked. His voice was filled with reproach.

  Brutus looked at his old mentor. “Why, I think I am the most important person in all the Senate. Is that not what you told me just a week ago, Cicero?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There are no buts. Tomorrow if I arrive at the Curia, I am with you. If I do not, I would suggest you make haste from Rome before Antony finds you.”

  The force of certainty in Brutus’ tone silenced even Cassius. Before, Brutus might have been respectful, or even shy in his words. Now, with so much lost, he had lost his caution as well. These men had turned his life into the abyss that it was. He owed them nothing. Certainly not his respect.

  The younger man waved the other senators away. Cassius spit, then turned. Lylith’s lean brother stood straight. “You have changed, Brutus. You treated my sister most sorely last night.”

  “She thought to blackmail me.”

  “You have brought turmoil into my house.”

  Brutus only shrugged. He cared not about the problems he brought Longius. Cicero hung back and looked at the scrolls upon the long shelves. He brushed the dust off one in particular.

  “Tell me, Brutus, what knowledge has all of this research brought you?”

  “That Rome has had kings before, and it might have one again.”

  Instead of his usual rage, Cicero only nodded and fingered through the pages as if they discussed the best way to bake a cake. “It might. But at what cost?”

  Brutus sighed. “I do not think to read the future, Cicero. All things change. Perhaps it is time for Rome to follow suit.”

  A sad smile played on the orator’s face. He sat down upon a chair. “You can save Caesar. It would be a simple thing. He will believe you if you speak of a conspiracy.”

  “Yes, he would,” Brutus said with hesitation. What was Cicero angling at?

  “Have you thought of what will unfold after that? You hold dozens of your fellow senators’ lives in your hands, Brutus. Are you willing to sacrifice all of them as well?”

  “They have made their decision, Cicero. When one plots against Caesar, one must accept the risks.”

  The orator nodded and rose. He handed Brutus the scroll. “I ask only one thing, Brutus. Tonight when you sit across from Caesar, ask yourself one most singular question. Is he fit to be king? Will he forge a nation better than a cleansing civil war? Then make your decision.”

  Without another word, Cicero walked away, limping slightly on his left leg—the one injured in Gaul a dozen years ago. The orator had given much to Rome. As difficult it was to remember in a moment like this, Cicero had given much to Brutus as well.

  Brutus sank into the chair. These men might be arrogant, but they truly were fighting for what they believed in. Caesar was no better than they. Julius would wreak havoc for the benefit of his own pride as surely as Cassius would kill him for it.

  Looking down, Brutus realized that the scroll Cicero had given him was a speech given long ago by his good friend, Pompey. His eyes moistened at the memory. Brutus had forgotten how eloquently his former ally had defended the Republic against Caesar’s excesses. Spain had hated being under Caesar’s rule, whereas they had thrived under Pompey’s guidance.

  Would Rome suffer the same fate if Caesar ascended to the throne?

  Pompey had felt strongly enough to wage war against Caesar. Could Brutus do no less in his memory? The wick sputtered again, reducing the flame to a bare flicker. The hour grew late, and he had a dinner to attend.

  For Pompey, and for all that Cicero had given unselfishly to Rome, Brutus would keep a clear mind this night. He would ask himself that singular question—was Caesar fit to be king?

  * * *

  Syra huddled in the exact spot she had lowered herself into the night before. The boat rocked gently as it made its way downstream, but she barely noticed as the light faded from the sky. The moon had risen and fallen. Now the sun
was following suit. She had dared not sleep. Not last night or this day. It was not the danger of discovery that fueled her insomnia, but a fear of the dream world.

  What images would it taunt her with? She had enough pain. She did not need to add to it in her sleep.

  The ship had pulled up anchor hours ago. They were well down the Tiber, yet Syra could not find the energy to rise to even steal food. Sadness weighed her down more surely than the ship’s anchor. Despair wore heavily upon her heart. What was the point in fleeing Rome when the pain just followed?

  Hunger flared as it had for hours, but Syra ignored the pangs. Food would do little to soothe the greater agony that gnawed at her intestines. There was little reason to eat when one wished only to find a grave and crawl into it for eternity. But her stomach was insistent in its protests.

  Simply to quiet the burning, Syra reached into the pack the hag had given her. Perhaps the old woman had included some food in the satchel.

  Blindly digging within the pack, Syra pulled out a small waterskin. She thought to take only a sip, but once the fluid was upon her mouth, Syra thirstily sucked down the entire flask. After licking her lips, she rummaged with more purpose through the pack. Now that her stomach had tasted moisture, it screamed for sustenance.

  Passing over a change of shirt, Syra dug deeper within the satchel. Surely the hag had packed an apple or two.

  Her hand felt something firm. Was it the hilt of a dagger? Her fingers ran over the carved surface. Even without light, Syra knew the handle was made from a sheep’s thighbone. Her hand knew each and every curve to the design. The hilt was fashioned as a she-wolf suckling the twins, Romulus and Remus.