Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  What could he say? All eyes were upon him. He could not fail the people in this. So despite his body’s urge to turn up the hill toward the Treasury, Brutus nodded humbly. The girl raised the suffibulum even higher and Brutus followed her to the Temple.

  The girl was obviously an apprentice Virgin, for she bore the adoration well, whereas Brutus cringed as some in the crowd reached out to touch the fine material. Others kissed their fingertips and transferred the affection to the veil. Still others knelt and clasped their hands in prayer. Brutus had underestimated the effect of this morning’s tragedy. The people were not just concerned—they were near hysteria.

  In Rome, this was not a good thing. Buildings fell and blood spilt in times like these.

  Relief poured through Brutus when they crossed the threshold into the Temple of Vesta. All of the priestesses must have been called to duty, since the other five Virgins stood around the fire, chanting and praying to their most cherished goddess. The attendants were only letting a dozen citizens in at a time to view the sacred fire this day. A wise decision, since not ten years ago another mass pilgrimage such as this turned into a near riot, and the temple itself nearly burnt down.

  Brutus could feel his temper and frustrations wane in this serene environment. The marble underfoot was cool, and the shade provided by the column-supported roof was a relief after his trek across the Forum. The sacred fire sparkled a bright blue that transcended into white at its tips.

  The five Virgins fed the blaze a constant stream of kindling and herbs that sparked into tiny fires of their own. Normally, the Virgins rotated their duties so that a single Virgin would attend the fire throughout the day and night. In this crisis, however, they all attended. Their visits to the outlying temples and even their attendance to the royal palace were suspended this day—with the exception of Symphia, who was nowhere to be seen.

  Cylista, the youngest of the anointed Virgins, beckoned Brutus to the far end of the temple. Leaving behind the young apprentice, Brutus joined the most junior Vestal.

  Despite her youth, Cylista bore the full authority of the Virgins with ease and seemed perhaps the least flustered of the Vestals. The girl acted as if the entire Forum were not jammed with desperate followers or that Caesar himself was not beset with worry at the tragedy.

  “Brutus, it has been a several moons since you visited our humble temple.”

  “You speak the truth, Cylista. There have been most pressing matters of state to attend to.”

  Cylista arched an eyebrow at his attempt at an excuse. “More important than the heart and spirit of Rome? See how a single incident can stir the blood of the nation? What could be more pressing than that?”

  Brutus knew better than to try to argue with a woman, let alone a Virgin. “As always, you are right. I will be sure to pay my monthly respects.”

  “As should all the senators. Even one who calls himself an Imperator.”

  Brutus shifted uncomfortably. Was no one content without speaking of Caesar today? Did everyone assume that somehow he had the general’s ear? For that, they had best speak with Marc Antony or better yet, Caesar’s young paramour, Cleopatra. But Brutus voiced none of these thoughts. Again he simply bowed his head in supplication to the Virgin.

  “I shall pass on your wishes at the next opportunity.”

  “You will, will you not?” Cylista studied Brutus as he nodded. Finally, a look of satisfaction passed over her face. “The gods must be pleased this day. Symphia had just asked me to summon you, and now you grace our porch.”

  Brutus inwardly groaned. He had not thought the Virgin would need his presence quite so soon. But now, within the Temple, Brutus had little room to decline. He simply followed the Virgin.

  Brutus followed the girl in silence as they exited the Temple and into a palm-lined courtyard. Taking a misstep, Brutus righted himself. He had expected the girl to lead him to the dormitory. Instead they headed straight down the long courtyard. This did not bode well.

  Normally the priestess held informal meetings within the residence itself—many times in the open-air garden. But this meeting was to be held in the bastion of privacy, the Regia. The Pontifex, Rome’s highest priest, normally held state meetings here, and many a king had mapped out his battle plans in this old palace.

  The young Virgin opened a set of thick mahogany doors and motioned for the senator to enter. If Symphia had meant to intimidate Brutus by the surroundings, the old crone had hit her mark.

  Symphia sat at an enormous wooden desk that could easily seat twelve sturdy men. Behind her hung the Ancile, the sacred shield of the god Mars. Ancient legend told of how it fell from the heavens right on this spot, telling the king to build his temple upon this ground. Circling the room were the Penates of Rome.

  These laws had been brought to this shore supposedly by Aeneas himself when he fled from Troy. Tablets etched in bronze, they glowed of their own light, giving form to Rome’s great Republic. They were the soul of their city.

  Only a legend could feel comfortable in these auspicious surroundings. Yet Symphia looked as if she were doing nothing more important than jotting down a list for the market. The Virgin let him stand for a full ten breaths before acknowledging him with a brief glance. She indicated a marble chair.

  Even once seated, Symphia allowed him to languish without a word. Finally, Brutus cleared his throat.

  The old woman did not even look up when she asked, “Impatient?”

  “I do have a country to run.”

  Brutus immediately wished he could take back the flippant comment, but the Virgin surprised him. He had forgotten that in addition to her legendary devotion, she had a healthy sense of humor. The Vestal’s eyes rose, and a smile spread across her crinkled lips.

  “That you do. And I have a country to nurture. Perhaps we can find a way to achieve both in a united effort.”

  “I am at Vesta’s disposal.”

  Symphia glared at Brutus with far more scrutiny than her younger apostle had. Brutus felt as if the very hair on his head was being weighed and measured.

  Finally, the Virgin released him from her stare. “Caesar is not well.”

  “His personal physician stated exactly the opposite.”

  The Virgin snorted and moved her papers aside. “That healer will say whatever Caesar wishes him to say. Calpurnia has called me to the palace nearly every day. She will need a healer herself soon. She is nearly distraught with worry.”

  “That does seem to be his wife’s occupation.”

  “Do not allow her fragile constitution to fool you, Brutus. She is gifted. She has the sight.”

  Brutus could take only so much of this tutoring by the Virgin. It was common knowledge that Calpurnia was more than a little eccentric.

  “Really? Did she envision that Caesar would offer to divorce her to marry Pompey’s sister?”

  Symphia seemed well aware of the change in Brutus’ tone and hardened hers as well. “Yes, she did. If Pompey had accepted the offer, we might have thwarted civil war. Calpurnia would have quietly agreed if it meant peace for the Republic. For that, you alone should respect her.”

  Brutus tired of their verbal sparring. “Symphia, why have you brought me here?”

  The old Vestal brought her fingers to a point and rested her chin upon them. “You, young man, are going to save the Republic.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  Syra’s splintered palms held fast to the rough wood of the cart. The city gates had just opened, and Rax forced his eleven carts into the line. It appeared that the guard had changed, and Rax did not have enough in his coffers to bribe these new soldiers. Undeterred, the slave driver cracked the whip and forced the oxen forward.

  Unfortunately, the centuries-old cart tracks were deeply grooved. The carts bounced and lunged over them. The errand boy had to fend off the angry shouts of those merchants who were cut off. But Rax could not be slowed. He seemed hungry to get to the slave market before dark. Otherwise, Syra guessed
that the slaver might miss out on a few coppers’ profit.

  As they approached the colossal wall, Syra felt tears rise. She did not wish them there. She hated Rome. From their silk togas to their arrogant wars, Syra hated everything Roman. Then why did this entrance feel more a homecoming than a slave being dragged to market? Why did it feel that she came another step closer to fulfilling the dream?

  She turned to inspect how Navia fared, to find the young girl green with nausea. Syra was barely able to tuck the Spaniard’s hair back before the girl emptied the meager contents of her stomach onto the dusty road. Navia’s body was so wracked by spasms that the girl did not even hear the crude insults hurled by the other merchants and the guards at the gate.

  One soldier in particular leaned in and sneered as if he were somehow better than this slave girl. Syra would have liked to say she timed it perfectly, but in reality she simply reacted. Her elbow seemed to have a mind of its own as it smashed the cruel man’s nose, just as the cart lurched forward into the ruts. By the time the soldier realized that she had broken his nose, their cart was well within the gates. The guard shouted and pointed toward Syra. However, it was his turn to bear the brunt of his fellows’ gibes.

  Perhaps trumpets did not blare upon her arrival, but in some small way Syra felt she had made a fitting entrance into the seat of the world.

  * * *

  “I have heard all this before, Symphia,” Brutus said in frustration. “From Cicero, Cassius, even the damned Merchants’ Guild.”

  “Then perhaps you should listen to them.”

  Brutus tried to regain his patience. “I loved Pompey like no other, Symphia. He was a great leader, but Caesar vanquished him. I know my fellow senators are resistant to the fact, but it is the truth. Caesar won. We can never go back to how things were before the war. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Symphia laid a hand upon his wrist. “You are Caesar’s son, Brutus, and—”

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “Do not bring my lineage into this, Virgin.”

  “Like Pompey’s defeat, your heritage, too, is fact.”

  “Nay. I am a fatherless bastard, Symphia. Caesar has had ample chance to declare himself my father.” Brutus jerked his wrist away from the Virgin’s cold touch. “But he has not.”

  “Nor has he dismissed the rumor.”

  “I am but a humble servant of the Republic, like any other.”

  “Like so many things, it matters not the facts, Brutus. Your fellow senators and the populace believe you to be his son. In that there is power.”

  “Only to broker peace, Virgin.”

  “Look around you, boy. Caesar means not to rule Rome, but to grind it under his heel. There can be no peace then.”

  Brutus moved to the door. “This rhetoric better suits Cassius than myself, I am afraid. Perhaps you should summon him or Trebonius or Artemidorus. Even Cicero would be a better choice this day.”

  Symphia crossed the room quickly, trying to bar his departure. “None have your stature. None can herald in a new era.”

  Ignoring the Virgin’s bait, Brutus opened the chamber’s towering mahogany doors. “Then we had best get used to this old era, Symphia. Now good day.”

  Given the number of soldiers and acolytes in the hallway, the Virgin did not follow him out. Relieved of her presence, Brutus made a straight course for the Forum.

  The late afternoon sun seemed even more vengeful. It beat down upon him, making his coarse muslin tunic cling to his legs. And he had yet to arrive at the Temple of Saturn so that he might balance last quarter’s wheat totals.

  Before Brutus’ stomach could twist itself into knots over the day, he heard his name called out. Would this day’s responsibilities never end? Craning his neck, he tried to make out the source, but the Forum was still packed with bystanders concerned for the fate of the Virgins.

  Was that a litter? While he had ordered no such thing, Brutus was willing to use his senatorial power to commandeer the thing if it just got him out of this crushing crowd. Then he noticed Horat waving him down. The two met with a warm handshake.

  “My lord, I hope you do not mind my impertinence.”

  “From you? Never. But how did you know where to search?”

  Horat eyed the crowd. “When news of the tragedy reached the house, I knew where to find you.”

  Brutus let out a sigh. Perhaps his luck this day had turned. “Excellent. Then it is off to the Temple of Saturn.”

  Horat placed a lightly restraining hand on Brutus’ arm. “We have gathered the scrolls you need already, my lord.”

  Brutus truly brightened. They could head home. Home to a breezy study where his fevered brain could cool. “Home, then.”

  “Nay, my lord. Lylith has sent word.”

  His throat contracted at the mention of his wife’s name. Why could she not just stay at his mother’s residence and scheme from there? For the thousandth upon thousandth’s time, Brutus cursed letting his mother convince him to marry again. He had divorced his first wife so that his life could be free of political meddling, but here he stood again.

  There was no point in punishing Horat, though. The man could not help what tidings he bore. “And?”

  “She has many demands regarding expanding her private bedchamber and building a private women’s bath—”

  “Horat, do not bother me with such items. Take care of it as always.”

  Quite unlike his normal efficient demeanor, Horat stammered.

  “What is it, Horat? Spit it out.”

  The manservant frowned. “The Lady wishes you to buy her a new serving woman.”

  Brutus waved off the servant. “See to it.”

  “I’m sorry, sire. She specifically requested that you go to the slave market yourself and choose her handservant. Lylith feels that I am inadequate for the task.”

  “Why does she not go herself, then?” Brutus asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance. His wife had gone too far this time.

  The servant looked at his feet as he answered. “She says that it is beneath a lady of her station to be seen at the market without her husband, and since you refuse to attend her in public...”

  Brutus scowled. He should not have been surprised, though. There were a few rules he had laid down after their marriage of convenience, and Lylith had finally found a way around one of them. If he broke this rule, and escorted her to the market, Lylith would pester him until Brutus was dragged to each and every social event Rome had to offer. The only way to keep his privacy was to go to the market and fetch a serving woman himself. Brutus had few things that were truly his own, and he meant to protect those with his last breath.

  “So the litter is to deliver us to the slave market?”

  “I am afraid so, my lord.”

  As Brutus entered the conveyance, he sighed again. From sunrise to now, all he had sought was a bit of peace. Yet at every turn, he was thwarted. The Fates seemed to have their own ideas about this day.

  * * *

  Syra could feel her eyes burn, yet did not blink. Rome rolled slowly by as their cart trudged its way through the narrow streets. The buildings towered overhead to four and sometimes five stories. And these were not official buildings or monuments, but simple dwellings. She could only assume for the poor, since many had rags to cover the windows, and the squalls of hungry children filled the crowded street. Syra wanted to be appalled at the squalor, but it was squalor of such magnitude that she could only look on with wonder.

  Navia snuggled closer as the line of carts snaked around a curve that dead-ended at a large tent—the tent that sheltered the auction block. It might have been ten times the size of the one in Edinburgh, but the stench was exactly the same. Bitter desperation mixed with stale sweat.

  For the first time since her capture in Spain, Syra truly realized in her gut that she was going to be sold. It was easy over the long months of travel to lull herself into a sense of denial. How could she have been brought so low?

  Bile ros
e in the back of her throat. Her wrists strained against the metal irons. She should have fought harder. Even wounded, she could have slid a blade between Rax’s ribs and melted into the darkness. But each night that she held Navia in her arms as the girl wept until her breath came in tiny gasps, Syra could not bear to leave the girl unprotected.

  Then there were the dreams. Dreams that forced her south. Forced her toward Rome. Even at their worst, the dreams still gave her something that she had not known for months—the sensation that she was free.

  A sharp snap of her chain harshly reminded her that the feeling was nothing but an illusion. Rax flogged the boy to unload them faster. Others cried, and even the old hag wept, but Syra held her scraped chin high. While her body might be sold as a pig’s would, no one owned her.

  Despite the chain around her neck being jerked as hard as the poor boy could manage, Syra hesitated. It wasn’t from fear or worry. Suddenly she wasn’t certain if she was ready. She truly felt just a twinge of pity for the man who bought her for pleasure tonight.

  * * *

  Brutus took the damp cloth that Horat offered and put it before his nose. The stench was nearly overwhelming in the auction arena. After two hours of bearing this assault to his senses, Brutus felt like retching. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, but still they could find nothing suitable. It seemed even the slaves of late were of poor quality.

  Despite the urge to buy the next slave on the block and be done with this foul business, Brutus knew he best pick well, or face Lylith’s wrath.

  Feeling every bead of sweat along his back, Brutus cursed his wife. He found the entire notion of slavery appalling. Brutus had been raised to be of service to the people, not to snatch another man’s freedom. Why could his wife not employ servants as he did?

  Brutus let out an audible sigh. He knew the reason all too well. Lylith felt slaves were something due her station. She reveled in the power of it all. Which made Brutus dislike his wife all the more.