With a sudden rush of terror, Syra jerked her hand out of the pack, bringing the dagger with her. It had felt like the dagger was white hot, burning her hand. The blade tumbled once in the air, then fell to the floor. There it lay against the bare wood. A dark substance flecked the metal, making it dull rather than glowing with heat.
Syra checked her skin. It was undamaged. Which of the hag’s tricks was this?
Up on her haunches now, Syra poked at the dagger like she was a monkey exploring a snake that had struck then fell dead. She knew that she had never seen the knife before, yet it felt more familiar than her own name.
But it could not be from her native land. From the yellowing of the bony hilt, the dagger looked as old as Rome itself. How had the hag come to acquire such a prize? And why did it affect her so?
Syra was so engrossed in the mystery of the dagger that she did not hear the intruder until he was upon her. Luckily the creak of a loose plank sounded as he lunged, otherwise she might have been caught unawares.
“Scag!” the sailor cursed.
Throwing herself to the side, Syra landed hard on her right shoulder, but she was close enough to the dagger to snatch the blade before the man launched his second attack. Syra’s hair fell from the loose tie and tumbled over her shoulders.
The sailor’s face brightened. “A wench? Looking for a bit of fun?”
Swinging around, Syra let him lunge at her. Only at the last second did she bring the knife to bear. The sailor impaled himself upon the blade before he even realized she was armed. A cry escaped his lips as the hilt rammed into his abdomen. Falling backward, the knife slid out of the wound with a sickening sound.
The sailor fell backward, clutching the bloody wound. Within a single heartbeat, Syra was left standing over the dead man, his blood dripping from her knife.
The room spun and rocked. Squinting, Syra wished for the discordant sights and sounds to leave her head. This was not the first man she had killed, yet she found it hard to take a single breath. The dagger refused to be released from her hand. The carving of Romulus and Remus burned into her palm.
Opening her eyes, she was shocked to find the room aglow with light. Syra spun around. Rock walls replaced the wooden hull. It took her mind a moment to recognize the temple was that of Hephaistos. The very temple where Romulus was buried beneath black marble.
Even though her feet could still feel the pitch and roll of the ship, when she cast her eyes down, they saw solid marble. Her hands could still feel the cool surface of the bone hilt, yet when she looked, there was no blade in her grip. How could this be? Had the old woman bewitched the water in the skin? Was this what Caesar felt when he had his convulsions?
When Syra looked up, she was no longer alone. At the altar was a trio of priests chanting to their god. Others were gathered in a semicircle around the sacrificial fire. Beside her stood Romulus. She would have recognized him from the multitude of statues around the city, but Syra did not need the recent memory for such recognition. She would have known this man’s face even if she had never left Scotland. How, she did not know, but it brought her heart relief to see his face once again.
Romulus looked down and smiled upon her. A leather tie pulled his sandy brown hair back. He had the bluest eyes that spoke of an eagle soaring across the open sky. Even if herbs induced this vision, Syra’s soul was lifted higher by his adoration. She knew each line that etched the skin around the Roman’s eyes. Syra knew the feel of her hand when she soothed the worry from the furrows of his forehead.
“They owe this not to me,” the tall Roman said.
Her eyes asked him why.
“If it were not for you and your geese, Rome never would have been forged.”
Syra could remember that night long ago upon Capitoline Hill. Hostile forces surrounded them. None of the others thought that the enemy would attack through the swamp and scale the backside of the hill. She could feel herself fume in frustration.
Did no one realize how determined the enemy was? They would stop at nothing, even losing their own men to the swamp in order to attack. Syra alone had decided they could not take the chance. Under the ruse of honoring Juno, Syra had insisted on positioning the geese to the rear.
Romulus squeezed her hand bringing her back to the dream. “They should be honoring you this night.”
“Nay,” Syra heard herself say—only her voice was higher pitched than normal. Gentler. Softer. “They have the right of it.”
Even though her voice was filled with love and hope, Syra felt fear clutch at her heart. She surveyed the room. All the faces were familiar, yet she could not summon their names. A pair of eyes sought hers out. Another woman across the room had concern on her face as well. But why?
Syra’s instincts sent the hairs on the back of her neck up. Something was not right. Even though they were celebrating the consecration of Rome as a nation, her stomach fretted. There was danger here.
The priests finished their prayers. Two left the raised dais. Only one was left standing before them. In his hand, the high priest held the bone-handled knife. Syra wanted to shout, but she could not move her lips. The priest motioned for Romulus to join him in the sacred circle. Her husband gave her hand a last squeeze as he moved forward, but Syra did not release his fingers.
“Do not go alone,” she hissed in his ear, even though she wished to say so much more. “Take Harn.” Syra indicated Romulus’ first lieutenant.
He indulged her with another smile, although his voice was firmer. “I will not insult the priest so.”
Syra let his hand slip from her fingers, even though she wished to grab his arm and wrench him back from his destination. Could he not feel the fear in her heart?
As Romulus stepped forward, Syra felt dread spread from her feet, up her back, and encircle her chest, constricting the air. The priest’s face was stern as he gripped the knife. The Phoenician holy man was to hand the knife to Romulus so that he could cut his palm and drip the blood over the sacred fire, thereby sealing Vulcan’s favor for Rome.
When Romulus took the step up onto the podium, Syra begged her body to scream, to draw him away from the danger, but it was no use. The Roman, her love, the reason she rose in the morning, climbed the last fateful step.
Syra glanced at the woman across the room, who responded with pinched lips. Could no one stop him? Could no one else see the blood that would be on the blade? Romulus’ head was bowed in reverence, so he could not see the metal flash in the light.
The priest buried the knife up to the hilt in Romulus’ belly. Finally her lungs caught up with her heart, and Syra screamed, “No!”
Her legs launched her forward as Romulus pitched backwards, his hands cupping the hilt. Syra caught him and lowered him to the ground.
“Do not move.”
He tried to laugh, but sputtered in pain. “We must talk.”
“Nay,” Syra said as tears streamed down her face. “Rest.”
Romulus’ hand came up to her cheek. “It is over, Zi. Do not grieve.”
Syra did not question why the Roman called her Zi, only that the name made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it was a nickname long forgotten, but whatever the reason, her blood pounded in her ears at the sound of it.
“I will not grieve, for you will not die. Do you hear me, Romulus?”
Rapidly the Roman’s clothes became soaked through. Blood poured from his wound and stained the gray marble floor—the red so deep that the ground now looked black. The color drained from the Roman’s face. What was once a sun-baked visage became ashen gray.
Romulus’ lips trembled as he spoke. “Zi, please let us finish this.”
“Nay,” Syra repeated. Sorrow was so thick in her throat that she did not think the Roman could hear her words.
“I love you more than the sun loves the day.”
Tears threatened to choke off her response. “I love you more than the moon loves the night.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Romulus’ pale lips. “
For eternity.”
“For eternity.” Syra leaned over and kissed her love’s mouth. For a brief instant, he responded to her touch, but then his lips went smooth.
Jerking upright, Syra tried to revive him, but his whole body was limp.
Collapsing, she pressed her ear to his chest and felt a small gasp escape his lungs. There, a heartbeat. Then, after a long pause, another beat. Then none.
She listened, pushing her head so tightly against his skin she feared that he could not take in air if he tried. But no matter her prayers, his heart did not beat again.
“No!” Syra raised her head from his body and screamed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished it all to go away. The pain. The sorrow. The loss.
Syra opened her eyes to the darkened hold of the ship, yet the feelings that gripped her heart back in the torchlight would not loosen. She sank to her knees and could not gather the strength to rise.
The bitter taste of death was still upon her lips. No dream had ever clung to her mind such as this. Details normally slipped away once her eyes were open. They faded more quickly the harder she thought upon them, yet the more she focused on the details, the sharper the memory. What was happening to her?
As much as she tried to find her feet under her, Syra could not. Tears streamed down her face as she missed the man she had never known. She was certain that her mind was patching together stories she had heard in Rome, yet her heart knew better.
Holding the bloody dagger, Syra could remember when it was covered in Romulus’ blood. Just as she had risen yesterday morning and brushed her hair with an ivory comb, one day in the past Syra knew that she had held this knife in her hand.
But none of it made sense. Finally rising, she carefully skirted the dead body and headed toward the hatch. Syra needed fresh air and the light of the stars to decipher this puzzle. But she had barely moved a few steps when her legs weakened.
Thoughts fought to rise to the surface, but Syra refused them. Her mind felt like a mirror that had been thrown to the ground. The tiny fragments reflected a thousand images. Each of which made no sense, yet each was perfect in its own right.
Syra swung around to find bright red flashes exploding overhead. They sparkled and boomed as if the heavens were rent open. She wished to raise an arm to guard against the next green crackling display, but she could not.
Looking to her side, Syra found a man dressed in a silk robe. His skin had a yellow cast, and his eyes were slit like those who peddled spices from the east. A smile played on his lips.
“It is worth it for moments such as this, no?” he asked in a strange language, yet Syra could understand every word.
A noise from behind pulled Syra back to the world of the living. A sailor was looking for his shipmate. Slinking along the shadows, she avoided detection. They would find the body soon. Memories be damned, she needed to escape the ship before she was discovered.
A wave of nausea passed over her. Then instead of rough planks beneath her feet, Syra witnessed a sun-spilt field. A strange plant grew up all around her. In the distance was a huge temple. It was built like a pyramid, yet it had steps up the center. A bare-chested man emerged from the temple and walked toward her. His gold headdress was crowned with bright feathers that reached for the sky. Skin brown like the earth basked in the warm summer day.
“Toma, you must remember,” the man stated with a voice that rolled off his tongue. She should not be able to know his meaning, yet it was clear. Only how could she remember that which had not happened?
“Help me,” Syra asked, despite herself.
His brown eyes glimmered in the strong sunlight. Moving closer, the man took her in his arms. She did not object. His arms were strong, and his sweat felt good against her bronzed skin. Their lips were but an inch apart.
“Do not fight,” the man said in a rushed whisper.
He leaned forward to kiss her, but the shouts of men broke the spell. Knowing they had found their dead sailor, Syra regained her legs under her. Now was not the time to falter. Clutching the bone-handled dagger, Syra climbed out of the hold.
“There!” a shout came from the crow’s nest. The man had spotted her on the deck.
The sound of men running filled the air. Syra looked out over the river. She could no sooner swim than fly through the air. But the sailors were gaining, and there was nowhere else to run. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Syra dove into the murky water. As curses rose from behind her, she struck for the shore.
The Tiber’s current tried to drag her downstream, but Syra fought it. She had never swum before, yet her arms and legs worked in unison to keep her afloat. She did not question this new skill—she only used it as the men lowered a skiff into the water. They seemed intent on capturing her.
* * *
Brutus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Others around him chatted as if the fate of the world did not hang in the balance. The dinner had gone without event, which made it all the more unbearable. Not that Calpurnia’s dining room was not well appointed. Brutus’ seat was padded to the point that one might think it was a bed.
The cuisine was imported from all the provinces across the Empire. Julius’ wife had even included Parthinian food in the menu. A subtle reminder that Rome would conquer yet another nation soon.
Yet with this entire repast, Caesar had barely touched his food through the long evening. The general looked bone-weary, and he was recently recovered from another spasm. The rest of the guests seemed determined to make up for their leader’s malaise with forced cheer. The only one not participating in the strained banter was Suprinna.
The seer sat apart from the rest, looking out a domed window. What could the old man see with his clouded eyes that Brutus could not?
Did the seer have clarity of vision that Brutus did not possess? Would the world turn on its ear tomorrow? Or would a group of senators be accused of high treason? Brutus wished he had even an inkling of why history had forced him into such a precarious position.
If anything, Brutus’ pity for Caesar had grown through the night. Yet even this feeling complicated his decision. It was hard to imagine that this frail old man would survive the journey to Parthia, let alone prevail in the war. And what if Caesar lost at Parthia? What if the Romans finally stirred their enemy to invade Rome? Without Caesar, Brutus doubted if the great city could survive such an attack while still grieving their downed hero.
None of these thoughts helped lighten Brutus’ heart. He was damned if he revealed the conspiracy, and doubly damned if he joined in the assassination. As much as Brutus tried to ignore the others, Maximus, the governor from Spain, was quite loud. It seemed he wanted to assert his stature over the other Romans with his volume alone.
“You must have thought of such things, Brutus.”
He had no idea what the loud man had asked of him, so he dodged the question. “I am afraid not.”
Maximus turned to the general. “Tell me, then, Caesar. What type of death is best?”
Brutus stiffened as Julius’ eyes cleared. The general’s voice lost its slur as he answered. “One most unexpected.”
The words struck at Brutus’ heart. It felt as though Caesar had just given him permission to commit the foul act tomorrow.
Looking at the slack-jawed general, Brutus saw a man ready to die. Looking over at the window, Brutus met Suprinna’s gaze. The seer’s eyes were unblinking for several heartbeats. Brutus was transfixed until the old man gave the slightest nod, then went back to his window gazing. Brutus sat perfectly still as the conversation continued on around him. It was as if the Fates’ icy hands had just brushed his skin.
Suprinna suddenly stood upright, as if a bolt of lightning had hit his chair. All eyes swung around to the seer.
The old man spoke to no one in particular. “Beware the Ides of March.”
Brutus was not certain if the words were meant for Caesar or himself.
* * *
Syra’s arms screamed in protest as she fought the treache
rous current. Near the bank, the water sought to crush her against the steep bank. The dingy was not far behind as the sun dipped behind the hills. She did not know how much longer she could stay afloat. Each time she tried to climb the slick mud, she was swept away by the churning water.
Nausea rolled over her like the waves tousling her hair. Her sight blurred. A vision threatened at the edge of her vision. No, not now, not here, Syra begged the gods, but they were deaf.
Gone were the angry waters of the Tiber. They were replaced by the Nile’s calm flow. Its blue color glistened under the hot sun.
The hanging gardens of Babylon stretched out green and inviting.
Alexander the Great thrashed in death throes upon his bed. The vision threatened to drown her as surely as the water that pulled her under with every passing moment.
“Grab hold!” a voice shouted from the top of the shore. A rope dangled up the bank a foot. The voice broke the spell of the vision, and Syra spit out a mouthful of water.
“The rope!”
Syra tried to see who might be calling to her, but a cluster of trees blocked her view. Feeling herself slip once again, Syra dragged herself up the muddy bank. Using the last of her reserves, she scaled the last foot and grabbed the rope. Someone pulled while she scrambled up the slippery mud.
Angry shouts arose behind her as the sailors realized she was making good her escape. Syra spared a glance to see the men put their backs into the oars. They would be upon her in another moment.
At this most critical time, the rope stopped pulling, leaving Syra dangling halfway up the cliff-like embankment. Using the rope as leverage, she tried to climb the rest of the way, but the shore was too steep and the mud too wet. Syra could not find the purchase necessary.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 24