How had they found their way to her room? Had Brutus done such a deed? But he had not been at the Temple of Saturn all afternoon and the festival all evening? Before she could question any further, Navia entered.
“Ah, Syra, you are back. How was the market?”
As Navia gathered a few things, she answered, “Fair. When did…”
Syra could not finish her question, for her throat choked off the words. The scent of pine filled her nostrils and made it hard to speak.
“These things? Smelly, aren’t they? I told them you would not like it, but Horat said Brutus insisted they be here before you arrived.”
“Brutus?” Syra tried to hide her urgency. “Was he not away all day?”
“Aye, but he sent a runner with the items and a page full of instructions for Horat.”
She could not help but move closer to the sweet thistle. They felt dry and rough under her fingertips, but she could not imagine a more pleasant feeling. Syra turned as Navia went to leave again.
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, you were gone all day. You did not hear.” If it were not for Navia’s light tone, Syra might have felt a wave of concern. “They have moved me down the hallway. Fiona insists that I have a softer bed and a room that faces the south, so when the babe comes…”
The frail girl rushed forward and hugged her. “I have not truly thanked you, Syra. This place…” Navia glanced around the room. “It is not home, but it is a sanctuary, truly.” Navia took a step back, but still held Syra’s hand. “Fiona says if I am loyal and perform my duties well, Brutus will free me upon the birth of the child.”
Navia must have seen the look of distrust that passed across Syra’s face, for the young girl was quick to state, “I do not know whether to trust these Romans or not, but…” The widow’s face glowed with such hope that Syra made it a point not to allow her own trepidation to cross her face.
“Fiona is certain that Brutus will let me raise the child here and even teach him to read and write. Would that not be wonderful? The cook thinks it is a boy. He could be a craftsman or even a scribe. Is that not good?”
Syra squeezed Navia’s hand. “It is. You should get to bed and rest this artisan of yours.”
Navia’s smile was warm and open. A beauty she had not seen on the entire journey lit the girl’s skin. “You do not mind, do you, Syra? If you wish the company, I will stay.”
“Nay. Fiona is right. You must take care of yourself.”
Without more discussion, Navia left. Syra’s lips trembled. She was both hopeful for the girl and more than a little worried. Syra did not want this frail widow to suffer more heartache. Would Brutus grant all the wishes that his cook promised? And if he did, what was Syra to think?
She brought a thistle to her nose and drank in its rich scent. Just as hate for Rome took root again, this damnable Roman made her heart weep with joy.
* * *
Brutus bumped into yet another bushel in the kitchen. For all the commotion in the Forum, his house was quiet and dark. Without disturbing his slumbering servants, he was trying to find someone still awake. Not even his rambunctious stable boy was underfoot. Normally Brutus would have been pleased, for he had picked his staff for stability and their love of the sedate life, yet tonight he cursed under his breath. There was no one awake to tell him of Syra’s fate.
He had checked the baths to find them cold and unused. The veranda was empty as well. Not even Horat was up, reading in the study.
Abandoning his quest, Brutus quietly walked down the hall that led to Syra’s bed-chamber. Yesterday, he would never have thought to violate his servant’s privacy like this, but Brutus could not help himself. He had to know. Had to know whether she was out waiting for Antony.
Hand upon the smooth door, Brutus stopped. What was he doing? He was married, and the Northerner his wife’s servant. Even though he legally owned the fiery woman, Brutus had always given his staff their liberty. After their agreed-upon chores, their time was their own. Freedom was what Rome had been built upon. A value for which Brutus would die. Then why was his hand upon the door, sneaking about in the middle of the night, checking on this woman’s whereabouts?
Brutus knew it had nothing to do with finances, or with an employer’s concern. He was here because of his heart. It ached to think of her in the young Roman’s arms. Brutus knew that if he tried to lie down his mind would spin, and his body would toss and turn. Logical or not, he needed to know.
Before his mind could argue any more, he gently pushed the door open. The bed was empty. His heart sank so quickly he swore that he could hear it hit the floor with a sickening thud. A breeze blew through the hallway and opened the door another inch. Brutus let out his breath, for in the far bed lay his Northerner. Her red hair spilled across the white linen pillowcase. It was the younger girl who was missing from her bed, not Syra.
Brutus should have been satisfied, but his feet moved forward despite his objection. He crossed the room to view the items he had bought for her. Although his matter at the Temple of Saturn was urgent, Brutus had refused to see the wine merchant until the young runner had gone back to the market and bought all of the wares the old woman had at her small booth.
Brutus had even made sure that Horat commissioned an artisan to repair the Green Man’s ward. He would once again have to thank his old manservant. The carving appeared nearly flawless and graced the wall well. He only hoped that Syra’s discomfort had been relieved by her homeland’s tokens.
Taking one last look, Brutus stood but a foot away from the woman who beguiled him. In sleep, her face was serene. The Northerner’s alabaster skin shown in the low light, her lips full and slightly parted. How he wished to reach out and stroke that smooth cheek. But he had transgressed enough this night. Brutus had the knowledge he had come for and would not violate her trust any further.
Turning, Brutus headed for the door, but a soft voice stopped him.
“Thank you.”
By the time Brutus turned back, Syra’s eyes were closed, and it looked as if the woman had never woken. If the words did not still caress his ears, Brutus might have thought Syra had never spoken. But he could remember the fullness of her voice, the slight apprehension in her tone as if she were not used to thanking anyone, let alone Brutus.
“You are welcome.” He had not meant for his voice to be so deep, but he could not rein in his emotions.
How Brutus wished that he could look into those bright green eyes. But it was not to be. He left the room and carefully closed the door behind him. With those two words, Syra had sent his heart soaring. For his entire life, women had uttered their love for him, or cajoled him with sweetened words from the Muses, yet none of these proclamations had touched him like the Northerner’s simple gratitude.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 9
Syra brushed her hair far more slowly than she ever had before. The morning rays peeked in the window as her mind wandered. The memory of Brutus’ silhouette in the night burned in her sight. He had stood so close, yet so far. At the slightest movement of the door last night, Syra had awakened but had been unafraid. Already she knew the Roman’s scent, but had been uncertain of his motive.
If it had been Antony last night, the boorish Roman would have tossed back the covers and lay beside her, confident of her desire. Brutus was utterly unlike that. He was still Roman, but Syra was having the hardest time hating the man. Brutus had been kind enough to check upon her. Much like a father would a daughter. Or a husband upon a wife.
The romantic haze burned away as Syra thought of Brutus’ own wife, Lylith. Even though the socialite was absent, his vows were still present. It was time for her to put fanciful thoughts from her head. She had been purchased for a reason, and today she was going to find her place in this household.
After a few missed turns, Syra found herself in the pantry. It seemed that all hallways in this household eventually led to the kitchen, much like the roads that ended at the Forum.
“Good morn,” Syra said with not much enthusiasm as she entered.
“So, you have decided to see what Rome looks like in the morning, eh?” Fiona chided Syra once again.
“I came to see what work I am to do.”
Navia was the first to answer. “You can help me with these.”
The young girl held out a handful of potatoes. Syra stepped closer. Those could not truly be potatoes. She had secretly searched the marketplace for the vegetables yesterday and found none.
Fiona kept chopping onions even though her eyes wept. “Do you know what they are?”
Syra took one from Navia’s hand. The surface was filled with knots, and the skin still had dirt caked to it. The weight of the large potato was heavy in her hand. “They are called potatoes.”
The cook snorted loudly. “Well, I hope you know how to cook them. Brutus had all of these delivered late last night.”
Syra looked over the counter to find several bushels filled with her homeland’s vegetable. “Aye. There is much you can make with them.”
“Pasta?” Fiona asked, her eyes slit.
“Nay. I do not think so.”
The cook playfully threw up her hands. “Then what am I to do?”
Even Navia seemed a bit frustrated with the firm root. “We wash them first, aye?”
Syra laughed at both of her companions. These two were in for a treat. “Do you have a grate?”
Fiona’s eyes slit even narrower. It was obvious that the older Roman was unused to cooking with new foods. Fiona handed over the rough grate as Syra scrubbed the potatoes clean. These were not the best specimens she had ever seen, but they would make a welcome meal. It took more than one pass to finally clean the rich soil from all the tiny nooks, but finally Syra began grating the potatoes. Juice bubbled up as the inner root was exposed.
Navia snatched a small piece before Syra could warn her. The girl put the raw potato in her mouth, then made a most disgusted face.
“You do not eat them raw,” Syra belatedly instructed Navia.
“There is no doubt in that. I do not think they will ever be edible.”
Syra only smiled. Once she was done with these vegetables, Navia would sing a different tune.
* * *
Brutus watched as the other senators slowly filtered into the Curia. An emergency session had been called early this morning, and his fellow legislators were slow to comply. Most had been out drinking and frolicking the night before. Despite the midday light filling the room, only half the Curia was filled even though the summons had come while the sun still slept in Apollo’s stables.
Earlier this morning, Brutus had hoped that the knock upon his bedroom door was Syra coming to expound upon her gratitude, but he had been sorely disappointed when it was but a clerk from the Forum.
It seemed that the Lucius Cotta, Rome’s highest priest, had called this meeting, which was most peculiar. Why was the priest of ancient prophecies calling the Senate together, especially after such a festive night? Brutus could tell that none of his fellow senators was in the mood for a religious lecture this morning.
Despite his tired eyes and weary bones, Brutus had made certain to arrive at the Curia early. He had little desire to have Cicero or Cassius find him before the meeting. They would fill his ear full of dire intrigue, and Brutus already had enough of that talk for a lifetime.
So the senator stayed seated in his chair to the right of Caesar’s throne and dutifully pored over the grain tallies from Egypt. Jupiter himself could descend from the heavens, and Brutus would ignore him until these blasted totals were reconciled and placed in the Tabularium.
The room stirred, and Brutus looked up to witness Julius enter with Antony. Caesar wore his usual flowing toga with his thick purple cloak, but today the material hung awkwardly. As the general approached, Brutus knew why. Julius was ashen, and his hands shook. Brutus had known the general long, and could sense that Caesar must have had a fit. And by the look of it, the general had spasmed within the hour. Brutus rose as the leader of Rome gingerly climbed the steps to his throne.
“Caesar.” Brutus bowed his head.
The general did not answer—he only waved Brutus back into his seat. This close, he could see that Caesar had bitten his own lip, and blood still clung to the injury. Calpurnia must have put some rouge on his cheeks. Else, the general’s face would have been the unhealthiest gray.
The yarn spun for the commoners was that Caesar was touched by the gods when his body spasmed and convulsed on its own, but Brutus was not so certain. What god would do this to his most beloved? He had wrestled the thrashing general to the floor more than once to put a stick between his teeth during a seizure. There was nothing spiritual about those episodes, yet Brutus held his concern in check. Caesar’s health was not his purview.
“Enough!” Julius slurred. “Start!”
Even Antony was surprised by this outburst. It was beyond all reason. There was at least a quarter of an hour of protocol before a session of the Senate could be begun. Besides, half of the legislators were still to arrive. Cicero was already out of his chair when Antony moved to calm the orator.
“Caesar feels most anxious to hear the priest’s vital words. Can we not allow him to begin?”
Antony’s words might have seemed to ask permission from the First Counsel, but his tone clearly held a warning to Cicero.
The older senator’s face became a blotchy red, in stark contrast to Caesar’s pale color. “Antony, as you know, this great Republic was built upon a foundation of—”
“There will be no vote, man. It is just an announcement,” Julius snapped, then nodded to the priest, who was hovering to the right of the main floor. “Begin.”
A painful silence descended. The priest did not move. Antony held his ground a step above Cicero. The older man’s cheeks billowed in and out with each passing moment. Guards positioned around the Curia held tight to their spears. Each was crested with Caesar’s rich purple colors. Each and every one of the general’s personal guards was here. But to protect what? And against whom?
The tension pounded against Brutus. He snatched a look at Caesar, who looked ready to descend into another fit.
“Begin!” the agitated general bellowed.
Caesar’s fury brought the priest out onto the floor. Cicero opened his mouth to protest, but something in Antony’s eyes stalled the orator. With skin the color of a fuchsia in full bloom, Cicero took his seat.
The nervous priest shuffled in front of the hushed crowd. “I, the Lucius Cotta, come before this great body with humble words. Last eve, after the Diadem was placed upon Jupiter’s crown, I spent many hours in meditation with the Capitoline Triad.”
Brutus nodded to encourage the faltering priest. While this explained why the Lucius Cotta was not present at the Festival of Pan, it certainly did not warrant calling the Senate to session.
“I fell asleep at the feet of Minerva, and in a dream the Great Goddess of Wisdom showed me the Sibylline books opened to a page I had not read since I was but an acolyte.”
A rustling passed through the Curia. While Rome loved its mystical prophecies, having one come to life was always disconcerting. This city liked its gods close at hand, but far enough away to stay out of its day-to-day affairs.
“I read the passage from the holy book and knew that Antony had been divinely inspired last night.”
A rumble started from the back of the room and escalated to full concern by the time it made its way to the floor. Many senators had risen from their seats. Even the new rabble at the back of the Curia had silenced their chatter and stared forward.
Only Cicero seemed rooted in his chair. Brutus could see the older senator’s mind trying to divine the priest’s meaning before the Cotta could speak it. The orator did not like surprises.
“Hundreds of years ago, it was written that only a King could battle the Parthinians. Only a royal king wearing the favor of Jupiter can hope to defeat this most impressive host.”
While none disagreed, there was no silence. Instead, a low murmur spread through the crowd, as if the gods themselves were fretting over this announcement. There were no shouts of victory or loud words of condemnation. How could there be? The Cotta had spoken. The words were from the gods themselves, weren’t they?
Brutus was not familiar with the passage the priest spoke of, but he was certain Jupiter had not written it. Instead, it had been penned by some ancient king. More than likely a not-too-popular king who was launching a campaign against the Parthinians. Probably a man much like Caesar who wished to keep the gods’ opinion in his favor.
The lack of response visibly agitated Caesar, so Marc Antony stepped forward. His smile could eclipse the noon sun. “These are heavy words to ponder. With the invasion of Parthia so near, I think it best that we all retreat to our studies in contemplation.”
No one argued, or agreed. The room simply melted of its members. Brutus, however, could not rise until Caesar did. Unlike his usual confident demeanor, Julius seemed shaken. His face was pale and blended too well with his white toga. Hands that normally gripped a broadsword could barely hold himself to the throne. Julius opened his mouth, but no words came. The great champion’s eyes rolled back, and his teeth began chattering.
His body in the grips of a spasm, Caesar fell to the floor and began convulsing. Arms flung about wildly and his legs kicked at the throne. It was a horror to watch, but Brutus could see why everyone thought the gods were involved. No other force on earth could create such agony.
Antony rushed to the general’s side. But there was little the lieutenant could do except bar Julius from hurting himself. Almost as soon as the spasm came, it dissipated. Only the foam at the general’s mouth told of his body’s transgression.
Once Julius’ eyes cleared, Antony smoothed his hair. “Caesar, I shall call the doctor.”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 11
