Worse, Syra had noticed the weeks of Navia’s sour stomach and was certain that the Spanish girl was with child. Despite her usual disdain for others, Navia had grown upon her, so she had held her tongue, not wanting to give away the girl’s condition. If Syra had, Rax might have sold her off to the first whorehouse they stumbled upon. She might not be able to free them, but at the least, Syra could delay this young girl facing such a life.
Anger rose in the back of her throat.
Damn them. Damn them all. Roman and Spanish.
If Syra were still free in Spain, then bards would have written a different story. But she was a slave like any other. Her fate in someone else’s hands.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
The ground baked through Brutus’ leather sandals. Even for Rome, it was unseasonably hot for February. Brutus looked up at the sun. The sphere was red-hot and seemed to be flying across the sky this morn. He had stayed with the Virgin’s stallion until its last breath had given out. By then, the high priests had arrived and demanded a retelling of the entire sordid tale. With his pristine white robes splattered with blood, Brutus had borrowed the plebeian’s rough-spun toga and struck out again for the Forum.
Brutus had thought cutting across the market would avoid the knotted mass of citizens in the open-air court near the Rostra, but he had been wrong. If anything, the crowds had swelled with the temperature. Commerce bustled in the heart of Rome.
Canvas awnings flapped in the breeze as merchants hocked their wares, but you could barely hear them over the hammering of workers repairing the back wall of the Forum. While Caesar had brought on this devastation, the general seemed most desperate to build the city back to its former glory.
Earlier this morning, Brutus had seen Rome through the eyes of a true patriot. Now, having to shuffle his way through the dusty market, he saw what Rome had really become—congested and tired. Brutus surveyed the distant horizon for some respite, but found only dusty trails left by desperate farmers. During the civil war, the aqueduct just north of the city had ruptured, and the surrounding area had been without its water supply for weeks now. Engineers and slaves worked day and night to shore up the breaches, but the water could not be allowed down the channel until the entire length was repaired. Which meant that for the next few weeks, things would be dusty, noisy, and congested.
This was not the city of his youth. As a child, Brutus had strolled across the Plaza under a canopy of palm trees. Despite being a native of the capital, Brutus had always been amazed at the sheer beauty of the temples and statues. Dozens of white marble figures used to reach up to the heavens in supplication. Now, between the civil wars and certain heroes falling out of favor, there were but a half dozen motley statues lining the avenue. Rome was in distress, and it showed.
“A copper, sire?” a beggar asked, eyes downcast.
In his makeshift toga, Brutus had nothing to give the poor man. Dressed in rags, the beggar sat upon the hot stones, unflinching. One arm missing, and his left leg mangled. Another victim of Rome’s latest civil war.
On another day, Brutus might have rushed past this man, but not this day. Not with the sight of the Vestal’s stallion dead in the street still at the front of his mind. No, he needed to wash that memory away with an act of altruism, and hope that Vesta watched.
“You there,” Brutus called to the nearest market stall.
The shopkeep leapt at the chance to make a sale. “Yes, sire?” the pudgy man wheezed after sprinting from his stall.
“What is the largest coin you have?” Brutus asked.
“I am sorry?” The merchant seemed genuinely confused.
“Let me see your purse.”
The man snatched his goatskin wallet out of Brutus’ reach. “And who might you be that I should open my purse to you?”
Brutus was in no mood for a lecture on the class structure of the Empire, so he grabbed the wallet from the man’s thick fingers, plucked out a gold coin and tossed it to the invalid. “Use this to go home.”
The injured man looked incredulous at his luck and stared at the glittering coin. “Thank you, sire.”
Before the shopkeep could sputter an insult, Brutus consoled him. “Do not worry, good man. Call upon the Temple of Saturn, and you will be paid in kind, with interest.”
The pudgy man squinted hard. “How do I know they will pay?”
“Hush, man. Do you not recognize our benefactor?” the injured man interjected, showing the face that graced the gold coin.
Ever since Caesar had returned, the state’s coinage was struck with his own image and those of his Praetors. Brutus felt uncomfortable with such a distinction. There were some honors that you should leave to the gods.
The merchant’s eyes widened when he realized that Marcus Brutus, the man emblazoned on the coin, stood before him. “Forgive me, Senator. I did not—”
“There is no trespass. Seek the temple, and you will be recompensed.”
Leaving the men behind, Brutus hurried up the hill and entered the public gardens. The date trees, already laden with fruit, shaded the rich soil. Here, Brutus could almost imagine the glory of old, when the Republic was strong and united in purpose.
Climbing the steps to Pompey’s theater, Brutus felt his stomach tighten. The Senate was already well into its debate. It was the highest breach of protocol for a legislator of such rank as Brutus to miss an important session. Bounding the steps two at a time, he nearly ran into one of Caesar’s personal guards.
“Hold there,” the armor-plated soldier announced.
Normally Brutus would have brushed past him, but clothed in a commoner’s wool, the guard raised a sharp spear.
“Stand aside.” His tone must have carried enough authority, for the guard’s offensive stance wavered. The soldier recognized the Praetor, for the man’s face flushed even more red than his helmet’s feather plume, and he stepped aside, bowing his head.
“Forgive me, Senator.”
“How late am I?” Brutus asked, already knowing the answer.
“We were told to prepare Caesar’s chariot for departure.”
Brutus cringed. That meant the session was nearly over. His absence would be missed. Pompey’s supporters would most likely see this as a bold act of defiance aimed at Caesar. Antony and the rest of the Caesarians would seek his apology at such a breach. Each faction would try to use his tardiness to its advantage.
Once again, despite his best efforts, Brutus knew that he would be the center of more politicking. On a whim, he changed his route and strode to the back of the Curia and entered through the shadowed rear entrance.
He should not have been surprised by the sight. Brutus was still uncomfortable with Caesar’s remodeling of the Curia. Even after three months, the sight still caught him off guard. Julius sat upon a gilded throne, as if he were Jupiter himself. The engineers had to build a specially reinforced platform to hold the weight of the golden chair. The stage was high enough off the debating floor that Caesar looked much like a benevolent god watching his subjects play out their pitiful mortal games.
And today that assessment was not too far off of the mark. The entire purpose of this vote was not to enable emergency funding for aqueduct repair, or for relief of wounded veterans. No, they gathered for this special session of the Senate to confer yet more honors upon Caesar for his military victories. This one, in particular, stuck in Brutus’ craw.
The Venus Gentrix was considered the highest honor that Rome could bestow upon one of its heroes. The golden necklace was a tangible show of Venus’ affection. Yet all through history, it had been given only posthumously—usually decades, or even centuries, after the hero had died. But here today, this illustrious Republic was placing the gilded necklace upon a very-much-alive Caesar.
The vote must have already been taken, for Antony and Cicero, Brutus’ old mentor, were climbing the stairs to Caesar’s throne. Brutus was certain that not a single dissenting vote had been cast. Not that he blamed any of
his fellow senators, though. With the public’s high affection for the general, Caesar was immune to the Senate’s distaste. Anyone who cast a “nay” vote this day would more than likely have been stoned for his effort.
The ceremony ground to an awkward halt as Cicero and Antony stood on either side of Caesar’s throne. The necklace was upon a velvet pillow, and each man had his hand on the goddess’ boon. By right, Cicero, the First Amongst Senators, should have had the honor of bestowing the necklace, but the young Antony looked like he might tear the bejeweled necklace right out of the older man’s hand. Cicero’s face blossomed red, and the veins on his forehead pulsed with a barely contained fury.
An almost-imperceptible nod from Caesar backed Antony off, but it was obvious that the motion was not meant to appease Cicero, but instead to let the older senator know that he survived only by Caesar’s good grace. The flustered orator had no words of glory as he placed Venus’, and therefore Rome’s, favor around Julius’ neck.
At first, there was only a scattering of claps until Antony added his own to the applause. Then, as if on cue, cheering and wild clapping followed. Brutus put his hands together slowly. He was not one to appreciate a show such as this.
They could barely hear Cicero as he closed the session and brought down the marble gavel. All of the senators rose, and the entire Curia waited on Caesar. No one, not even visiting kings, could stay seated when the Senate was adjourned. It was ancient protocol to rise and show your respect to the Senate. But to everyone’s surprise, the general simply sat there, soaking up the adoration as if he deserved every last sip of fame. Another heartbeat, and still the general did not rise.
Brutus could not believe the sight. Could Caesar truly be daring enough to insult the entire Senate? Would he breach the most sacred protocol? Cicero’s face blanched as the time stretched out. When the color returned, it was as if a beet had been smeared all over the senator’s face.
Before the renowned orator could form a retort, Antony bowed with great flair to Caesar, then exited the Curia. All of Caesar’s supporters followed suit, leaving the supporters of Pompey in a most awkward position. Cheering roared outside the Curia as Antony announced Caesar’s newest glory.
The question that crossed every Pompey supporter’s mind as they stood fast was evident. The mob outside was wild with delight at Caesar’s newest accomplishment. How would it look if they held their ground and did not join Antony out on the steps? Cassius must have reached the conclusion that protocol be damned. Obviously, the lean senator wished to keep his head for another day, for he crossed the Curia floor and exited. Soon the rest of Pompey’s beleaguered followers trailed after him, abandoning protocol.
Cicero still hung back. The orator glared into Caesar’s eyes, seeming to demand that the general come down off of his throne and adhere to the age-old tradition. But Julius simply watched Cicero with an amused expression. Finally, the older man broke eye contact and stormed out of the Curia.
Did Caesar not understand how deeply his callous action had wounded the old man? Cicero had little left in this new world other than his stature and pride. There had been a tentative truce between the supporters of Pompey and the Caesarians.
Brutus had striven to quiet his fellow supporters of Pompey to wait and see how Caesar carried himself. Now, all of their fears were being realized. Julius was full of himself—full enough to insult the entire Senate. He felt his heart sink, and the plebeian’s words rose to his mind.
“Nothing good will come of this. Nothing at all.”
* * *
Syra pushed herself deeper into the corner of the cart as it rumbled forward. The rest, even Navia, had risen to view firsthand their approach to Rome with a mixed sense of fear and awe. She wanted neither. She wished only that the dream would release her from its grip.
It seemed the nightmare grew tired of waiting for her to fall into slumber. Instead, it held her tightly, even fully awake. With each roll the cart took toward the center of the world, the bolder the dream became.
Remember…
The whisper made the hairs at the back of her neck rise in a wave. Syra braced against the thick wood. There was nothing behind her. There could be nothing behind her. Yet a hand seemed to reach out of the void and rest upon her hip. She blinked twice. The sky was full and bright overhead, yet a blackness crept over her vision.
Remember…
The dreams had wanted her to fight, so she fought. The dreams had wanted her to travel south, so she had struck south. The dreams had wanted her to find Rome, so she allowed the slavers to take her to Rome.
All that the dreams asked, she had answered, but how could she remember something that had never occurred?
Yet the dream insisted, forcing her vision dark and her pulse racing. Syra closed her eyes, but that action only intensified the dread.
How could her fingers feel the very carvings of a bone-handled dagger she was not actually holding? Worse, a pain settled over her heart. An anguish that a thousand tears could not wash away.
Syra feared the feeling would overwhelm her when the cart lurched forward. Thrown from the corner, her palms flew out to catch her fall. The splinters thankfully pulled her from the abyss.
“Tía, are you all right?” Navia asked as she sank to her knees beside Syra. Despite her bruised heart and painful palms, she could not help but grin at the term of endearment Navia used. It was Spanish for aunt. For family. But soon even this tentative bond would be broken.
Navia helped Syra to her feet. She meant to scold the young girl for straining herself, but found herself muted by the sight. Before their rumbling cart stood the tallest wall that she had ever seen. Her disdain could not lessen the shock Syra felt as she viewed Rome’s greatest defense. The towering stone wall stood far over two men’s height and was wide enough for centurions to patrol the top side by side.
Even from this distance she could see the soldiers’ distinct beaten-bronze armor and burgundy-crested helmets. They exuded confidence and strength. As far as Syra could see, the wall stretched out to the dusty horizons, and the surface was riddled with archers’ slits.
What could be so precious to need such stout walls? Syra let out a deep breath, not realizing she had been holding it. Earlier, she had been wrong about Rome’s size. What was dusty and dirty were the homes and farms outside the wall. More people poured in and out of this gate than Syra had ever seen in a single place. It was unnatural.
Syra had been to Edinburgh and Portia. Those had felt to be dangerously large cities, but this…. this Rome was beyond the scope of her experience.
“How is it that we move?” Syra asked. “I thought we could not enter until after sundown?”
Navia nodded toward the head of their train. “Rax bribed the guards. We are allowed to pull up into the front and be the first in this eve.”
Syra surveyed the long line of carts that they passed. Some of the drivers shook their fists in anger, but none challenged the gilded soldiers who accompanied their slave caravan.
“How could he afford such expense?”
“No supper, or did you not notice?” the old woman sneered.
At the mention of food, Syra’s stomach rumbled louder than the creaky wheels of the cart.
“And no breaking of the fast, either,” Navia rightfully noted.
The old woman spat on the packed dirt road. “And I am certain that Rax has promised them a percentage of the profits. No one is above corruption here. No one.”
It was not hunger that turned Syra’s belly this time, but knowing that the old woman spoke truth.
* * *
Brutus did not need a sundial to tell him that late afternoon was upon them. He had backed out of the Curia the same way he had entered, hoping to avoid the intrigue his fellow senators would be sure to whip up at Caesar’s latest impertinence. Brutus cared little for intrigue and inquisitions. His place was up the slope at the Temple of Saturn where he could rest his weary body and occupy his upset mind with soothing numb
ers.
Determined to reach his sanctuary upon Capitoline Hill, Brutus had not noticed the gathering throng. But after running into several pedestrians, his attention turned to the crowd at hand.
Was there a public trial at the Rostra? Brutus searched out the platform built around the infamous column. All along its length were prows of conquered ships. Their bronze keels reflected in the afternoon sun. The huge totem was another testament to Rome’s might. Many times judges would stand upon its podium and mete out justice to the public. But not this day.
The growing mass descended upon the Temple of Vesta. The entire Forum Square was packed with citizens, plebeians, and aristocrats. News must have spread regarding the stallion’s death, for it seemed that all of Rome had rushed to witness the sacred fire still burning with their own eyes.
Without his purple sash to give him berth, Brutus was reduced to nudging his way through the crowd. Which was just as well, for the crowd might turn to him as they did upon the Sacred Way if they knew a prestigious senator were amongst them.
Keeping his eyes averted, Brutus tried to skirt the crowd and head up the slope, but the crowd parted suddenly, leaving Brutus awkwardly exposed. The person responsible for the crowd’s deference strode forward. It was Symphia’s young assistant. Above her head she gently waved a white suffibulum. The thin material shone in the afternoon’s last rays of sunshine. There was no mistaking the mark of the Virgin. Brutus tried to duck back into the crowd, but his bright red sandals gave him away. The girl met his eyes, and he was committed to step forward.
The acolyte must have seen his clumsy attempt at retreat, for her tone was less than friendly. “You were coming to offer your sacrifice to the Temple?”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 4
