In many lives, the greatest burden The Fated felt was that, once Awakened, they had to leave many they cared for behind without explanation. Those of the Order became your family. But in this life, Brutus would have an easy transition.
Syra leaned down and embraced the old woman. Mirta squeezed her tight, then released her.
“You will be gone from Rome by the time I return?” the hag asked.
Eyeing the moon rising in the night sky, Syra nodded. “If all goes well, Brutus and I will be away.”
She could see the pain and doubt in Mirta’s eyes. Syra softened her tone and stroked the old woman’s cheek. “The next time I Awaken, I want it spoken that you were the best of Guardians, Mirta. Do not forget that in your telling.”
Without looking back, Syra spurred her horse. Snorting, the stallion leapt forward and charged into a gallop. Head still spinning, Syra grabbed handfuls of mane and hung on for dear life.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 16
Brutus smoothed his toga and straightened his purple sash. With great care, he laced his red sandals. It was with great trepidation he clothed himself in the official garb of the Senate. This day might well be the last he ever donned the elegant uniform.
The conspirators thought that they could kill Caesar, then debate it upon the Curia floor afterward. Brutus had no such illusions. Chaos would descend, and Antony would call for their blood to mingle with Caesar’s. If he truly went through with this dark deed, Brutus might not come home this day or any other. Death was thick in the air on this Ides of March.
Without rousing anyone in the household, Brutus left through the garden gate. He eschewed The Sacred Way, opting for the less-conspicuous side roads. Brutus had no desire to meet anyone along the way. The sun was barely up, casting a waning light on the steep road as he made his way to the Forum. Despite the early hour, many senators were already assembled as Brutus passed through the bronze gates into the Curia.
Most of these senators were rabid supporters of Caesar—here to secure prime seats to see the general voted into kingship. There was a carnival-like atmosphere in the Senate chambers.
Did these neophytes not understand? At the least, the Republic was handing itself over to a man sick with power. At the worst, they would witness their idol’s death.
Avoiding the clot of senators near the floor, Brutus climbed the stairs and crossed to the back of the Curia. As he climbed down to his station, Brutus watched Cicero enter. The older man’s face was clearly painted with relief when he saw Brutus.
Cicero raised a hand in greeting, but Brutus did not respond in kind. Brutus’ presence did not necessarily mean his acceptance into the conspiracy. His heart was still torn. Brutus feared he would not know which way to lean until he set eyes upon the general for himself. Sitting down upon his rightful chair, Brutus settled in for the long wait until Caesar arrived for his coronation.
* * *
Syra’s horse was winded as they approached Rome’s west gate. She had ridden without rest the entire night and into the dawn. Looking at the long line of travelers, Syra urged her horse to the west. Even in daylight, she could scale the wall and be inside before the guards could catch her. Her head still spun with pain and confusion, but her heart had no such quarrel. She must reach Brutus before the assassination. Syra cared not about Caesar or even the impact of the assassination on Rome.
It was Brutus she was concerned for. The Fates could not be so cruel as to Awaken her, only to see Brutus be killed before they could consummate their bond. It seemed as the ages passed that she and her Fated had less and less time together before death stole them back into its cold embrace. This she would not let happen in this lifetime.
Dismounting, Syra slapped the horse’s rear, sending him galloping westward. Before the horse was discovered, she would be within the city. This massive wall might have been built to impress the enemy, but Syra found little trouble scurrying up the tiny footholds that littered the surface. Her muscles complained loudly at the abuse, but Syra ignored them.
The sun was well into the sky already. Brutus was in grave danger. Not yet Awakened, Brutus was vulnerable, like a sheep amongst wolves. How she cursed the Fates as her foot slipped yet again, slamming her knee against the hard wood. Why did the Fates let her leave Rome?
A shout arose as the horse was found, but Syra was already on the rampart, ducking behind the cover it provided. Luck was with her this morning, as no guards dotted this stretch of wall. Crouched, Syra headed to the stairs and was down them in a heartbeat. She was certain the Senate was already convened. She would need the speed of a cheetah to make it to the Curia in time.
Syra paused, as the thick wooden door was still slightly ajar. Had no one entered since she left? Slowing her haste, Syra felt for the bone-handled dagger buried within the folds of her shirt. She was so intent on the door that she did not hear the man behind her until he came down upon her head with a club.
Dizzy and off-balance, Syra tried to spin around, but another man sprang from the shadows and tackled her to the ground. Not yet fully Awakened herself, Syra’s body betrayed her. It was exhausted from too little sleep and too much information. When the second blow came, her body did not resist.
* * *
Brutus did not look up as another senator arrived. It was late in the morning, and the Curia was packed to the rafters with legislators. The room was abuzz with activity, yet the man who desperately wished to be king was late in his arrival.
“Brutus,” a hiss came from the darkened aisle.
Looking up, Brutus realized it was Longius who had just arrived. His brother-in-law, Cicero, Cassius, and two other supporters of Pompey were clustered in the shadows. Knowing that they would not stop their pestering until he joined them, Brutus set down his quill and rose to meet them.
“Caesar refuses to come to the Curia!” Longius stated, with rushed words.
Cicero’s face blanched. “Does he know of…”
“Nay. I do not think so. It is Calpurnia. She dreamt last night of his blood upon her hands. He capitulated to her wishes.”
“That sounds not like Caesar,” Cicero said as he looked behind him, seeming to search for an arresting party, but there was none.
“He looked ill, Cicero. The servant said he had three spasms already this morning. Antony is still trying to goad him into coming, but Caesar won’t even rise to attend Cleopatra at her palace.”
A wave of relief washed over Brutus. The Fates had taken this decision out of his hands. Perhaps Caesar would succumb on his own. Caesar might simply abandon his quest for the crown if he were so ill. Perhaps Brutus could have his quiet life back. If that were true, Brutus held a small glimmer of hope that he might seek out Syra. Could the Fates bestow such a favor upon him?
Brutus realized that everyone’s gaze had fallen upon him. “Then the day is over. We can retire to our homes.”
“Nay,” Cassius spat. “Brutus, you must convince him to come.”
Backing up a step, Brutus shook his head. Last night, he had imagined that Caesar might wish to leave this world and retire with the gods. It was very clear this morning that Julius dwelled firmly with the living. “It is over, Cassius.”
“It is not,” Cicero stated hurriedly. “You heard Suprinna yourself. The Ides is the day. We cannot shirk from our duty.”
Brutus backed another step. Now he was in the light of the Curia, leaving his fellow senators in the thick shadows of the corridor. “He must arrive on his own.”
Now that Brutus was far enough away, the others dared not speak their objections, otherwise they would risk the entire Curia hearing them. Walking back to his station, Brutus prayed that Caesar held fast. He wanted no blood on his hands this day.
* * *
Syra struggled against her bonds. They were not well fastened, but they were thick. She was not certain where she was being held, but it was near the Forum, for she could hear the shouts of bystanders waiting for Caesar’s arrival. Did these thugs not
realize the danger all of Rome was in? And why ambush her, then let her live?
No one knew she was returning to the city. Syra’s brow creased. No one except Mirta. Had the old woman betrayed her? Was she a member of the Dark? Did the hag owe allegiance to the Order’s shadow?
“I knew you would return,” a shrill voice announced from the shadows.
Syra’s fears instantly evaporated as she recognized the woman’s voice. “Lylith.”
The thin woman emerged from the back of the room. “I knew you could not stay away from my husband.”
Syra did not bother to correct the woman. Lylith had never held claim to anything but Brutus’ name. His heart was promised to Syra for eternity.
But how could she explain to Lylith that the brittle woman was nothing more than a small blemish on the tapestry of history?
“What do you want?” Syra asked.
“Your head. To deliver to Brutus’ bedchamber. Let him sleep upon that.”
Syra did not believe the brittle woman had the nerve to order such a thing, but Lylith had a crackling look in her eye. Her cheeks were far more flushed than they had been with red blush. Syra had seen other tightly spun women crack, committing the worst atrocities without a blink. Lylith appeared close to that moment when sanity fled in the face of billowing rage.
Still working the ropes with her wrists, Syra tried to stall. “Lylith, I mean you no harm.”
“No harm!” The woman’s voice rose two octaves. “You have ruined me!”
The two thugs closed in upon Syra as Lylith’s eyes shone in the dim light. Syra stayed upon her knees, feigning resignation. “Please, Lylith.”
“That’s right, slave. Beg me. Beg me for your life.”
Even though it choked her throat, Syra continued the ruse while she unfastened the last of the knots. “I don’t want to die. I’ll leave and never come back.”
“Oh, you will never come back!” Lylith said as she motioned the men.
With a strong push, Syra was up and onto her feet. The two men had expected to prey upon a runaway slave. They had not anticipated her aggressive move. The man on the left tried to dodge out of the way, but Syra slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground.
Lylith’s screams echoed off the small room’s walls as Syra slammed her fist into the man’s face, knocking him unconscious. Spinning around, Syra was on her feet, dagger drawn, ready for the second attacker.
The thug glanced at Lylith, then back to Syra. After a heartbeat, the man darted from the room, leaving only Lylith and Syra. The once-confident Roman backed herself into the corner.
Her voice was softer than a mouse’s. “Please.”
Syra spun as the door to the room opened. In the doorway was Horat.
“What are you doing here?” Syra asked Brutus’ Guardian. Why would he be here rather than with his charge?
The servant’s eyebrows shot up as he surveyed the room. “I came to rescue you.”
Syra could not help but snort as she looked down upon the cowering Lylith. “I need no rescuing, but we must get to the Forum.”
Horat nodded and retreated from the doorway. Syra turned to the huddled woman. “Leave Rome, Lylith. Leave before I become jealous.”
Without another word, Syra caught up with Horat. “Brutus sent you?”
“Nay, he is still ignorant of his destiny, but the Order has been watching Lylith. When they realized her scheme, they sent me.”
“Then we must truly hurry to the Curia.”
Horat tried to comply, but the streets were thick with bystanders—each trying to catch a glimpse of the great general. But the crowd was sorely disappointed. Centurions were posted every few feet to keep the mob under control as they chanted for Caesar.
Horat urged her to the edge of the crowd where they might slip past unnoticed, but a guard stopped them.
“None but senators may enter.”
Horat bowed his head. “I am Brutus’ servant. He has sent for me.”
“None.”
Syra’s hand lashed out so fast that Horat did not even see her strike until the centurion fell to the ground unconscious.
“Quickly, get him to the alleyway,” Syra instructed.
While Horat helped, he was obviously confused. “But there are a dozen other guards between here and the Forum.”
“We need only his armor. There is an ancient passage between the Temple of Saturn and the Curia.”
“I have never heard of such a tunnel. Are you certain?” the servant asked.
“It had best be. I ordered it constructed.”
* * *
Brutus entered the small cubicle and pulled the curtain shut. He had thought to leave the Curia, but Antony was to arrive any moment with the latest word from Caesar. As much as he wanted to flee the conflict, Brutus was obliged to see this intrigue through. But with all eyes upon him, he felt the need for a bit of privacy. Was that not what these alcoves had been built for?
Closing his eyes, Brutus tried to free his heart from its turmoil. There was so much he regretted and so much he still had to atone for. Could history not slow its pace to a canter? Was it much to ask that the Ides passed without incident?
Alerted by the scraping of wood against marble, Brutus rose and backed away from the wall. The secret panel was opening. But that was impossible. No one else knew of its existence. The figure who emerged was even more impossible. The body was camouflaged in a centurion’s armor, but those eyes he could never mistake.
“Syra?”
“Brutus?”
For a moment he thought he was mistaken, but the woman removed her helmet, and her rich, red hair tumbled past her shoulders. She unlatched the breastplate and set it beside her. Syra searched his eyes and seemed to find them wanting.
“Do you remember?” Syra asked in her husky voice.
Her eyes sparkled green, and her lips were the deepest red. He found it hard to speak when he looked upon her. The effect made him stutter his answer. “I have wronged you.”
A look passed over Syra’s face, but Brutus could not fathom its meaning. She approached even closer. The smell of her skin was strong in his nostrils.
“You have done far more to me than that.”
Syra came up to him. So close that Brutus could feel the warmth of her body through her dress. The bare skin of his chest burned in response. If they were not in the Curia, Brutus might have lost control and reached out to stroke her long mane, but he kept his hands down. Her eyes searched his for an answer, but he did not know her question. What did the Northerner want?
“For it all, I am sorry.”
Her face was so close to Brutus that he detected a ghost of a smile pass over Syra’s lips. “Sorry? Oh, you will be. You have not known such regret as you will soon.”
Brutus stood fast as the Northerner leaned into him. At the points where her body pressed against his, Brutus felt a heat he never had before. His loins stirred, but the senator fought his desire. Now was not such a time. He must keep his wits about him.
Syra’s behavior was most strange, but Brutus could not make her stop. The Fates had granted him his wish, and despite the circumstances, the senator would not abandon this chance to make things right again.
“What do you feel for me?” Syra asked, her lips but a few inches from his own. Her breath brushed his cheek, making his pulse pound in his ear so loudly that he barely heard her words.
How could he answer? His throat was thick with desire, and his body ached to touch her. How could he voice words he had never spoken to any other woman? “You know already.”
“I must hear it from you,” Syra demanded, her eyes still searching his own. She dragged a fingernail down his outstretched arm, but the action did not hurt. Instead, it sent waves of gooseflesh across his skin. “Am I your slave, then?”
“Nay,” Brutus nearly groaned. “You were free from the moment I laid eyes upon you on the auction block.”
Syra’s other hand now lay upon his bare chest. Her palm
burned against his naked skin. A finger dragged in lazy circles around his nipple. It hardened in response, much like the rest of his body did. Soon, he would not be able to hide his arousal. Her hips were pressed against him. What a sight this would make if someone walked in. Brutus tried to keep that in mind as she raised herself up on tiptoes.
“Do you love me?” Syra asked, as her lips nearly touched his ear.
Brutus leaned toward her, hoping to feel them against his skin, but she pulled back a fraction of an inch—keeping them separate, but close enough for energy to spark between them.
“Do you?” the Northerner demanded.
With blood pounding in his veins, Brutus realized he could refuse Syra nothing. “Yes,” he moaned, “I love you.”
But still, she would not meet his lips. Instead, she looked into his eyes. “For eternity?”
Their lips were nearly against one another. Every breath she took became his own. “For eternity.”
When her lips met his own it was as if the world collapsed unto itself and exploded all around Brutus. The kiss was all consuming. He might as well have been caught in a lightning storm. Rome was nothing but a white blur while his body was held prisoner in the most seductive of traps.
Syra’s lips were hot against his own. Her body arched into his, feeding the fire into his whole being. Her lips parted slightly, just enough to let her tongue explore his lips. Then ever so gently, she used her teeth to nip at the corner of his mouth. There was no pain, only scores of fire down his skin. Her hand explored his neck, until her fingernails scratched at his neckline. Then with precise skill, she tugged at his hair. Just enough to cause bolts of energy down his neck. The sensation did not abate until it had coursed out his feet.
As much as the Northerner was affecting his body, it felt as if their passion was altering his mind. He had been a tightly held bud his whole life, and now with her moist lips upon his own, the petals were slowly opening, releasing desire and knowledge in equal measure. Brutus cared not for the reason—he only wished it to continue to infinity.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 26