Brutus counted them off as they entered the city. His fellow Praetor was correct. Forty of these great brutes marched toward the Forum. With each step, they shook the wooden structure, but no one seemed to notice.
The crowd, so taken by the giant beasts, had all but forgotten the barge approaching the wharf. Once the elephants lined the avenue, a great horn sounded, and all eyes turned to the waterfront.
There the gates of the barge burst open, and Caesar’s chariot hurled onto the street. At a speed considered reckless even upon the racetrack at the Circus Maximus, the general coursed toward the Forum.
From the held-breath silence of the elephants’ arrival, the crowd let out a collective cheer. Then the noise could not be stopped. Brutus cringed. Even the elephants added their trumpeting to the welcoming. He looked across to see Marc Antony beaming with such a fierce pride that it made one believe that he was the one returning home from conquest.
The closer that Caesar drew to the platform, the louder the crowd became. Once past the dignitaries, Brutus knew that Caesar would continue beyond the Forum, climbing up Capitoline Hill to Jupiter’s temple. There, Julius would thank the god for his divine help. Brutus could not imagine a more spectacular homecoming for the general.
Just as Brutus felt an urge to give a shout of encouragement for his recent enemy, Julius’ horse stumbled as it made the turn up the hill. At such a speed, Caesar could not correct the chariot, and he was thrown up and over the horse. The conquering hero landed with a sickening thud upon the rough stone.
The crowd quieted to a stifling silence as Julius tried to rise, but was unable. Half a dozen guards surged forward, but Caesar waved them off. At the first sign of trouble, Brutus noticed Marc Antony race down the platform’s stairs to street level. But even then, Caesar refused his first lieutenant’s help.
Brutus could feel the tension from the crowd below. This show had been spectacular, but at what price? Had Caesar overstepped his bounds and displeased the gods? From a crowd that had exalted him, Caesar might well be stoned this night.
But, as always, Brutus need not worry. Despite his bloody hands, Caesar rose on bruised knees and spoke to the worried mob.
“If the gods wish me upon my knees, I shall obey!”
Without further words, Caesar crawled up the steep hill to Jupiter’s temple. In the bright torchlight, every one of the assembled Romans could see their leader’s blood stain the rough cobble, but still he crawled. The crowd accepted Caesar’s humble gesture with their entire hearts, and cheered him on. Brutus might have wondered if the accident were staged, except that Marc Antony’s tense jaw betrayed genuine concern.
No, there was no ruse here this night.
As Julius entered the temple, bloody and bruised, Brutus looked up into the night sky. Could the gods be as easily appeased as the crowd? If not, Rome was destined for dangerous times.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
Syra knew the form that lay beneath her arm to be the girl, Navia, but the rhythmic rise and fall of the tiny form still stirred something deep. The girl’s sweat dampened the cloth that separated them. Even before the sun reached its zenith, heat beat up from the rutted road. They must be close to Rome, for Rax had not stopped the caravan the night before.
Their bodies had swayed in unison for the entire night and into the morning as the oxen trudged forward. With every movement, she could feel Navia’s heartbeat against her breastbone. How Syra wished to remove her arm from around the girl’s waist to separate their skin, but to move would wake Navia, and the poor child needed sleep far more than Syra needed relief from their contact.
Her loins remembered well a swaying such as this. But not with a woman, and not in a cart. Her body told her such tales, yet her mind knew they could not be true. To have such a desire and not have it be for the one in your arms made for a most uncomfortable rest. Not that Syra knew for whom the desire was intended. The quickening of her pulse and moisture between her legs served as nothing more than an echo.
An echo of a dream that came not as commonly as the phantom battles, but often enough to remind Syra that she was in fact a woman first and a warrior second.
Strangely, in these intimate dreams, never was she the one to embrace, but was the embraced. She could still feel tender but firm hands coursing over the curve of her hip, the small of her back. Her flesh could remember warm lips coursing up and down her neck. A hot breath that felt not all that different than the approaching figure in the darkened chamber. Either time, it made her heart beat all the faster. Gritting her teeth, Syra pushed such thoughts away. They felt nearly as incapacitating as the dread.
Being disguised as a mercenary much of her life, the only hands that had ever touched her skin had been rough and brutal. To think a man’s touch would bring her pleasure cut across the grain.
And from all that she had heard of Rome, she could expect nothing more. By the end of this day, she and all who traveled with her in these creaky carts would be nothing more than flesh to be bought and sold.
* * *
Brutus was not halfway down the Sacred Way from his estate perched atop Palatine Hill, and already he wished that he had listened to Horat and ridden in the litter. The February sun shone down hot, scorching his exposed shoulder. This road might have a holy name, but his travels were anything but serene. There were so many pedestrians on the road that many were pushed off the stone pathway, churning the roadside dirt into a choking cloud.
Despite Brutus’ white senatorial robe with its distinct senatorial purple sash, he became stalled with the rest of Rome’s impatient population. Brutus craned his neck to see the delay, and was not surprised by the sight.
Defying the Senate’s new decree that all carts must wait until after sundown to navigate Rome’s overcrowded streets, a huge oxcart had somehow managed to bully its way onto the road. Legionnaires were in the midst of forcing the cart off the path. Angry shouts, not of Latin origin, carried on the light breeze. The man was more than likely a merchant bearing silk from the east or perhaps an aphrodisiac peddler from Egypt who felt his cargo was so much more precious than Rome’s endless bureaucracy.
“Sire?” a voice asked beside him.
Brutus looked the petitioner up and down. The man was a little older than he, but his skin sagged on his bones as if he had not eaten in days. His clothes were but rags. Brutus certainly did not recognize him. But by law, he was obligated to hear any citizen’s petition. Even one brought forth on a dusty road.
“Aye,” he replied coolly.
“Will Caesar become king?” the man asked.
Upon those words, the other pedestrians strained to hear Brutus’ response. Many more clamored to Julius’ defense. Brutus shifted in place, unable to retreat from his audience. Emotions were high, and a single misspoken word could bring on a riot.
“Only the gods know the future,” Brutus replied, mentally urging the centurions to clear the path ahead. This was not a debate for the Sacred Way.
“Why are you not defending the Republic?” a woman asked. Others booed the woman. Many shouted out Caesar’s great feats.
The answer to her question was far more complicated than a few military victories. Since Caesar’s return five months ago, the Senate was called to assemble nearly every day. Laws and regulations flowed from Caesar’s new palace across the Tiber. But with the Senate packed with Julius’ supporters and all of the supporters of Pompey, including Brutus himself, still fearing for their lives, he did not know why they even bothered to vote. Each time, it was the same. Caesar’s motions passed with enough room to walk one of his impressive elephants through.
The days of lively debate on the Curia’s floor were over. Now they only convened with the sole purpose of reinforcing Caesar’s stature.
“There is much that must still be determined,” Brutus answered.
The thin man could not be easily dissuaded. “Is it not the Senate’s place to protect us from dictatorship?”
The pet
itioner was correct, even though the crowd thought to drown out his question with rude comments. Before, not even a year ago, things were so very different. The Senate ruled all. One man could not eclipse the process of law. But after Caesar and Pompey had been elected co-counsels to Rome, greed and pride grew stronger than democracy. The generals were meant to guard and protect the Republic. Instead, the vast Empire could not bridle these men’s ambitions.
Soon, Rome was split in two when Caesar and Pompey strove to control the entire Empire. When those two egos clashed, there was no alternative to civil war. And out of war comes only one victor. Therefore, Julius could call as many sessions as he wished and none would complain, at least not openly.
“The Senate’s place is to serve the people,” Brutus said, as traffic began to flow again. Relieved to be free of the knot of listeners, he straightened to his full height and used his political stature to part the river of pedestrians. But the plebeian’s question hung heavy on his shoulders.
Despite Brutus’ urgency, his pace was stalled once more, and a disturbing quiet fell over the crowd. If this blockage were caused by another oxcart, Brutus himself would stand before the entire Senate and demand a penalty of a hundred gold coins to any errant merchant.
Forcing his way through the stalled crowd, Brutus stumbled to a stop.
No merchant caused this blockage. By the pale flowing silk covering the conveyance and the two pure-white stallions pulling the carriage, it could only be carrying one precious load.
A Vestal Virgin.
Not even senators were allowed a beast-drawn carriage in the city.
Glancing forward, Brutus noticed that one of the great beasts had cut its leg and was bleeding profusely. Bright blood streamed down its limb, despite the handler wrapping the injury with thick muslin. This sight had hushed the normally raucous population. Any injury to a Virgin or her servants was considered the worst of all omens.
It signaled the goddess Vesta’s displeasure. Even the youngest Roman babe knew that when Vesta’s ire was stirred, suffering befell Rome.
Yet this was not Brutus’ concern. His duty lay at the Forum. He did his best to stay out of the Virgin’s affairs. Brutus tried to turn away before he was recognized, but one of the Vestal’s retainers waved him over. Despite his sense of urgency, there was no declining an invitation by one of the Virgins.
The curtains parted to reveal Symphia, the eldest Virgin. Brutus inwardly cringed. This one was no neophyte to the order. Even though Virgins were required to serve only thirty years, this Vestal had taken a lifelong vow. She knew the political landscape of Rome and navigated it better than many Counsels had. Symphia had survived two civil wars and seemed able to outlast another if need be.
Brutus inclined his head so as not to meet her eyes. “Great Mother, are you in need of assistance?”
“They already fetch another horse.”
“Then I shall give you my humblest prayers and—”
To Brutus’ surprise, Symphia reached a wrinkled hand out and laid it upon his arm. “It is not your prayers I wish to garner, but your support.”
For a moment, Brutus was stunned into silence as the Virgin retreated behind the curtain. Before he could stammer an answer, the Vestal’s young assistant spoke. “She will call upon you when she has need.”
Brutus’ frustrations reached a zenith. “I have official—”
“You reap the fruit of Rome only through the Virgin’s grace. If Vesta has need of you, would you deny her?”
The muscles of his jaw clenched. How could anyone, let alone a senator, answer such a question? For six centuries of prosperity, the Virgins had kept the Sacred Fire burning in the Temple of Vesta. No one, not even Caesar, could deny the Virgins. There was nothing to do but ascend.
With a curt nod to the acolyte, Brutus tried to rush toward the Forum, but the crowd would not part. Clearing his throat, Brutus tried once again to push his way through, but the stalled populace stood slack-jawed, entranced.
Brutus turned back to the carriage, and even he gasped. The great stallion had slumped to the ground. Its precious blood streamed down the cobbled street. It was one thing to have a Virgin’s horse injured, but it was quite another to have her favorite steed die upon The Sacred Way. From the look of his fellow travelers, they felt as if Rome herself were bleeding.
Despite his most pressing appointment, Brutus found himself shouldering his way toward the downed beast. The attendants were of little use. Each bandage soaked through before they could tear another.
Trying to keep his tone civil, Brutus knelt down. “You must tie one above the injury.”
The young boy was near tears. “Nothing will stop the bleeding.”
Brutus was no physician, but he had served several years in the Spanish campaign and witnessed enough wounds to know how to stanch the flow. “Give me the cloth.”
Before Brutus could tie it properly, the stallion next to them began pawing at the ground.
“Quiet him!” Brutus hissed between clenched teeth.
The young attendant tried, but the huge horse kicked at the Virgin’s carriage. The beast’s hooves broke through the thick wood and a strangled cry came from the carriage.
“Untie him!” Brutus yelled to the boy, but the child was too afraid, and he barely had the bleeding under control. Surveying the crowd, he found a burly-looking man. “You there! Get the stallion away!”
At first the gruff plebeian seemed oblivious to Brutus’ entreaty. Then the stallion twisted in his harness and nearly knocked the man down. The near miss must have awakened the man from his shock, for he lunged forward and rapidly untied the great steed from the harness. Cooing like an experienced horseman, the plebeian coaxed the stallion away from the smell of blood.
Rapidly, Brutus tightened the tourniquet and stanched the bleeding. Still, the stallion’s eyes rolled back in its head, and its nostrils flared as if the great horse had raced the entire track of the Circus Maximus. Running his hand gently down the leg, Brutus examined the wound. For so much blood, the tear in the skin was but a nick.
Using the corner of his robe, Brutus cleaned the blood from the area. How could this tiny injury create such a flow? How did the horse injure itself in the first place? The wound was on the inner surface of the leg. How could a stray nail from a shop have cut it there? Investigating further, Brutus found the answer, as the air rushed from his lungs.
“Get the Vestal to the Temple!” Brutus shouted to the attendant. The boy was still wringing his hands over the second stallion. The child could not understand the danger that his charge was in.
Turning to the crowd again, Brutus pointed randomly to pedestrians. “You, you, you! Take the yoke. Pull her to the temple.”
The plebeians snapped to attention, but did not move. It was unheard-of for mere common folk to attend the Virgins. Even this frightened young boy must have been the son of a senator, or else he would not be part of the Vestal’s entourage.
“Now!” Brutus shouted.
The young attendant had recovered his color and stomped over to Brutus. “How dare you! No one but—”
The boy’s words died as Brutus showed him the tip of the poison dart that had penetrated the stallion’s thick hide.
The bloom rushed from the child’s face, but he managed to stammer to the crowd, “Yes, quickly. Pick up the yoke.”
With the permission of the attendant, people streamed forward and took up the wooden harness. Within seconds, the carriage was heading up Capitoline Hill to the Temple. The crowd followed the carriage as if it were a beacon on a dark night. Suddenly Brutus was left on the empty street with a dying horse.
He was startled when a voice boomed to the right of his ear. The burly plebeian stood over Brutus, staring at the poison dart tip, shaking his head.
“Nothing good will come of this. Nothing at all.”
* * *
Syra shielded her eyes as the oxcart jerked to a stop. The sun blazed overhead as if the globe were angered at the w
orld. She strained to witness for herself this great city of Rome that everyone worshipped, but all that lay before her was a long line of carts, much like their own.
Far off in the distance, a speck flickered on the horizon. It looked nothing but dusty and soiled. This could not be Rome. But why, then, had they stopped? Where else would the miles upon miles of carts be headed?
Where else would she be headed? Syra could not remember a time, not even running down a hillside of heather in her native land, when she did not know that she would find her feet upon Roman soil. Her soles seemed to crave it. Of course, she had always assumed that her entrance would be most grand, upon a dark stallion, her sword raised high above her head. Not stripped down to a coarse toga, chained to a rickety oxcart.
Frowning at the notion, Syra did not hear Rax’s approach until the butt of his whip knocked the back of her head so hard that her chin snapped forward and struck the rough wood of the cart. Lips cracked from weeks on the road split open.
“Keep to the cart, wench!” the slave driver bellowed.
Syra’s arm cocked back, ready to snatch that ridiculously small whip from the slaver and plant it in an extremely uncomfortable orifice, but Navia put a restraining hand on her arm.
“It would not be worth it.”
Still, Syra strained at the metal that chained her to the creaky cart. “I will be the judge of that.”
Navia’s hand moved to the barely healed wound on Syra’s forearm. “It was not worth it that time. It will not be worth it now. Not so close to auction.”
“Why? So that Rax might fetch a higher price?”
“No. So that someone besides the whorehouses will bid upon you.”
Letting out a hiss, Syra looked at the woman who had just saved her from another whipping. If either of them had to worry about the whorehouses, it was Navia. Dirt streaked her worn face. Her tiny feet were a mass of blisters. There was no way the girl would be sold as a house slave. No, the only thing this girl looked good for was lying on her back to give a centurion a few rides until she gave out completely.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 3
