Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  The man snorted loudly. “See, Tiberius, they are all the same. Using the law to pamper themselves.”

  “You are lucky, sir, that I have greater matters to attend to. I will let you go if—”

  “Anything!” Tiberius shouted. His young voice was so filled with desperation that it almost caused tears to rise in Brutus’ eyes. But now was not the time for sorrow. Now was the time for truth.

  “I must know who hired you.”

  “It’ll do you no use, senator. The plotter is beyond your reach.”

  Brutus drew himself up to full height so that he towered over the two. He let the metal of the blade flash in the moonlight. “I will decide such things. Out with it.”

  As the boy spoke, Brutus suddenly wished that he had not asked such a question. He physically stumbled back a step. This could not be.

  * * *

  Syra watched as Brutus strode from the courtyard. She had sequestered herself behind the eastern wall. While she was appalled at Tiberius’ deep betrayal, Syra wanted to be sure that Brutus did not act on his dark mood. Blood being spilt would not cure the ache in his chest. She was relieved when the senator had lowered his weapon. He had stumbled back from the boy’s chatter and had even allowed Tiberius to collect the silver coins from the ground. She was not sure that it was a conscious act on the Roman’s part. He seemed dazed as he disappeared past the far gate.

  Syra considered following Brutus. The senator was in the foulest of moods. She feared that he might act rashly. But she remembered the harsh look in his eyes. They had turned a steely gray. There was not an ounce of affection in the cold stare that he had given her. She was certain her master would not appreciate her continued surveillance.

  Back in the courtyard, the Roman had finally showed his true form. Those words had been of a master to a slave. She owed him no more.

  Rising, she found her legs leaden under her. Her heart was equally heavy. It seemed that Brutus was not the only one affected by this night’s events. She had meant to seek her room, but found herself wandering down to the waterfront. There was a pain in her chest that could not be soothed by clean sheets.

  For the first time in her life, Syra had opened the door to trust. There was the glimmer of hope that perhaps people, even Romans, could think beyond themselves. But she had been sadly mistaken. Not even a child could be trusted inside Rome’s blasted walls. It pained her in a way she could not have even conceived of a month ago.

  How could the single turning of the moon change her so? She had felt her skin an armor against any who tried to assail her. How could her heart be injured when she did not let anyone past that thick layer of cool reserve?

  Even though she was fully dressed in her careful disguise, she felt more naked than she had back in Brutus’ bath upon her first night in Rome. Now, even her body betrayed her. Her breasts chafed at the tight binding. They had been freed from such confinement for too long. Even the padding she used across her belly to mimic a paunch scratched and irritated her skin. She had worn such a ruse for years, yet her body rejected the attempt to hide her figure.

  And her skin’s complaints were the least of her worries. If only her burgeoning womanhood could be cinched down as easily as the fullness of her breasts. It seemed that at every turn, Syra reeled from new revelations. She might have been born a girl, but never had she known what it was to be one.

  Unlike Navia, Syra had never even tied a bow in her hair. She had heard other women talk, but she had dismissed it all as rather silly. That is, until now. No one could have described how sensual it was to have silk drawn across the skin. How the tiny goose bumps along the arm could be felt all the way down in the groin.

  Syra never would have believed that if one ate toffee slow enough and savored its taste upon the tongue, that one could feel so full. It was as if her body had been a vessel too long empty. A part of her wished to pour in these new feelings and fill the void. But she was too long on the road and had lived her life on the wrong end of a sword to throw herself in with abandon. She had tried to keep herself apart from the other women. Their light laughter mocked her. How easily their dainty muscles moved under their skin. How freely they talked of their loves and desires.

  Until coming to Rome, Syra would have said the only desire distilled in her heart was that of revenge. The only release she had known was the elation after a victory. In her hardened state, she could not have imagined what Brutus’ hot breath upon her skin could evoke. How could his deep baritone make her stomach tighten and her loins ache?

  Syra stopped herself. These were not the thoughts of a slave woman, but a free woman. Even though she now wore dresses and frills on her wrist, she was as much a prisoner as she was back on the slave cart. Remembering the cruel look upon Brutus’ face, she wiped the memories clean of those nights spent under the stars learning Rome’s mysteries. Syra would never know what his hand would feel like upon the smooth curve of her back. Or what his lips might feel like upon her own. Those urges were for another woman, not her. She must keep apart. Syra had come to Rome to learn her enemy. In that, she could not waver.

  * * *

  Brutus’ stride became longer as his mind recovered from the keening blow. Fists clenched at his side, he traveled up the Sacred Way, barely noticing the heavy traffic that flowed around him. Merchants were of no interest to him. His only desire was to face his betrayers and watch them flinch under his anger. Tiberius’ deception was but a waning light compared to the flaming torch of evil that sprouted in Rome’s bosom.

  A part of his mind knew that he should simply return home and let his mind heal from the turmoil of the previous day, but his feet carried him toward the Forum. There were times when logic was most unwelcome. Tonight, he would have answers. And revenge for a life that had been torn from him.

  At any moment another of his servants could betray him, and he would watch his life tumble down around him again. For this, the perpetrator would pay.

  Not slowing his pace, Brutus entered the marble temple. The beauty of the eternal flame of Vesta did not register in his eyes, let alone his heart. He strode past the flustered Virgin. Vaguely, he remembered Cylista from a week ago, but he did not acknowledge her greeting. Instead, Brutus headed to the right, down the long hallway that led to the residences.

  “Brutus! You know you are not allowed uninvited.”

  The Roman showed her the bloody knife. “Oh, I have been invited, Virgin. Do not block my path.”

  The young girl tried to hold her ground, but Brutus simply brushed past her. The Virgin stumbled to the side as her guard rushed forward. But they were in a quandary. The girl could not leave the sacred flame. Nor could the guard leave the girl unattended. They could shout all they wished, but Brutus would not be dissuaded. He bounded up the steps to the upper level, two at a time. His blood burned hot. All the tension of the last few months had coiled into a strained spring waiting to be released.

  There were no guards upon this level. Why would there be? Who would think to lay assault to a Virgin? Despite the lateness of the hour, Brutus did not bother knocking. He simply burst into the chamber, and was not surprised to see the oldest Virgin sitting at her desk. Gray hair grown out for decades tumbled from her shoulders and nearly brushed the floor. The burning candle at her side softened her ancient features. But no lighting could temper Brutus’ anger at Symphia.

  “You she-bitch!”

  The old woman raised her tired eyes, but instead of shock, there was only amusement. “At least I’m not a bastard, such as you.”

  “How could you? Do you have no shame?”

  “You brought this on yourself, Brutus.”

  Brutus pulled the small dart from his cloak. “You poisoned your own steed. I say again, do you have no shame?”

  Far faster than her old bones should have been able to, Symphia rose from her chair. “I am not ignorant in my pride as you are. People, even grand stallions, must die if we are to save Rome.”

  “Your actions curse the very
city you wish to save.”

  The elder Virgin’s age was betrayed as she leaned against the thick wood as she neared. “You have turned your back upon your duty, Brutus. It was your responsibility to protect the Republic. Do not argue with my methods when you did not even raise a hand at Caesar’s ascension. I have done what was needed to be done.”

  “You delude yourself, Symphia. You have done nothing but stir a pot that is already boiling over. You are only ensuring that all of us will get scalded.”

  Symphia seemed unperturbed. “It will be a cleansing burn, then.”

  Brutus grabbed the frail arm and jerked her around to face him. “I will not let you do this. I will expose you. All your scheming will be for nothing.”

  “You are denser than even I thought.” Symphia laughed at his rage. “You would dare to publicly accuse a Virgin?”

  “Accuse and see you buried alive along the Appian Way.”

  “You know the law better than that, Brutus. Only if I sullied my body could you enact that punishment.”

  Brutus let the old woman’s arm go, but he held her tight with his stare. “You have tainted your soul, Symphia. For that, Rome will bury you.”

  The Virgin’s laughter was both light and cold. Could she not see that she was worse than Caesar? This temple was the heart of Rome. The essence of Vesta. She had brought shame to this place in her arrogance.

  “And what will you accuse me of, young boy?”

  “With all of it. The stallion, Caesar’s chariot upon the Hill, the Circus. All of it.”

  Again, the old woman chuckled. “And whose word do you have?’

  Brutus realized he had been wise in allowing Tiberius and his father to live. They were living proof of her deceit. “Those that you have hired will speak out against you.”

  “The stable boy and his drunk father? Do you think me an idiot? I knew of their rendezvous long before you. You really should have killed them, you know.”

  An icy hand clutched his chest. How could she have known the disposition of their meeting? Brutus felt his heart skip a beat as Symphia tossed several silver coins upon the table. “I hear the boy clung to these until the end.”

  “How…” Brutus’ voice trailed off as the horror of what she had done sank into his marrow.

  “You were not ten steps away when my men dispatched them. Did you really think that I would allow any loose ends?”

  Pushing aside his shock, Brutus pressed his advantage. “There are others who know your sordid tale.”

  “Who? Your red-haired whore?”

  Brutus did not think upon it. His hand raised on its own and back-handed the Virgin. Her lip split upon impact, showering blood over her snow-white sleeping gown. But instead of rage, she only smiled a bit.

  Hands shaking, Brutus measured his words very carefully. “Never. Never call her that.”

  “That’s better. We’ll need that fire in your belly to bring down Caesar.”

  “If you have harmed her—”

  “Harmed? Why would I do such a thing?”

  The Roman’s stomach soured at the Virgin’s implication. While his naïve trust had been shaken back at the courtyard, he still found it hard to imagine that the fiery Northerner was anyone’s pawn.

  “She is no agent of yours.”

  The old woman shrugged, but her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “She has her uses.”

  The slur brought Brutus’ hand up, but several guards burst in.

  “What warrants this intrusion?” the Virgin asked the guard.

  The guard still held his sword with its point up. “We were warned that there may be violence afoot.”

  Symphia looked at her blood-splattered gown. “Oh, that. I stumbled. Brutus, here, was just helping me clean it. Were you not, kind sir?”

  The Roman’s nerves grated to go along with the ruse, but even now, the hallway was filled with young girls. Daughters of the men Brutus dared not tip his hand to quite yet.

  “Aye,” he strangled out.

  Symphia’s tone was smoother than her skin had been in years. “But it is timely that you arrived. The senator was just leaving and in need of an escort. Did you not say so, Brutus?”

  Bowing his head ever so slightly, he turned to leave with the flustered guard when Symphia called out behind him.

  “Cicero has asked for a private blessing tomorrow, two hours after the sun has crested. May we be graced with your presence?”

  Playing the part better than the actor this afternoon upon the stage, Brutus spread his hands in disappointment. “It sounds delightful, Symphia, but I have commitments elsewhere.”

  The Virgin was equal to the task. “Ah. Men such as yourself are always torn between your heart’s desire and duty, are they not? Farewell then, gentle Brutus.”

  His exit down the hallway was a blur of young faces. From habit, he nodded to each of them and even called a few by their given names, but Brutus’ mind had long left the residence. Could his life become any more entangled? Did they all not realize they would weave their threads of deceit so tightly that one day they would simply strangle the breath from him? And Rome would be no better for it.

  * * *

  Syra closed her eyes and tried to ignore bellows from behind. Dressed as a man, she was acting like one. With a sweeping motion, she downed her seventh drink of the night. A burning coursed down her throat as the ale reached its mark. A hearty whoop erupted as several other patrons tossed back their liquor as well. Despite the buzz behind her ear, Syra quickly realized that no amount of hard drink was going to dull the pain in her heart. She had thought drowning herself in drink in this dirty wharf-side tavern would somehow dull the ache in her chest, but she was wrong. It was doing nothing but making her head throb and her feet sore.

  Slapping down her coppers, Syra headed for the door, but several rough-looking sailors blocked her exit. Their lips curled up in a smirk. These two had been eager for a fight all night. She was no mood for their strutting. She did not even allow the first to hurl his slur before she slammed the heel of her hand into his nose. Blood spurted in all directions as the man hit the floor. A sweeping kick brought his companion down alongside him.

  Syra surveyed the room with a cool eye, challenging any others to come forward now if they had any argument with her. None met her eyes. Satisfied none would follow her out into the avenue, she exited the establishment. Head pounding, Syra turned to the right and headed up the Sacred Way. No amount of drinking could alter the events in a way that would make her stomach settle. What had transpired was now a bit of history—a part of her life that she could not turn away from.

  For a moment, Syra glanced toward the west gate. How easily she could slip away this night, never to be seen again. But would that not simply justify Brutus’ scorn? Her feet halted. What did she care of his feelings? Her chest moved in and out with indecision. No matter how she tried to deny it, this evening and any other, Syra did care.

  She had not cared for many in her life. And even though her feelings for the Roman were but a whisper of concern, it had pained her to see his face etched in despair this night. She could not bring herself to add to his mistrust.

  Turning her back on freedom, Syra marched up the sloping street toward Palatine Hill. She hurried her pace, as she realized the night’s sky was losing its inky black mantle. Apollo must be stirring on the other side of the horizon, for shades of dark blue streaked the distance. Before she was at Brutus’ entryway, a rooster crowed his invitation for the sun to rise yet again.

  Daring not to enter the house directly in disguise, Syra hopped the wall into the gardens. This time, though, her muscles complained loudly at the strain. This night had taken a toll on them all. Quieting her body, Syra entered the kitchen unseen. Using a small basin, she wiped way the night’s mask. She threw the wadded material she had used as her midsection padding into the chute that carried laundry down to the washing pond. A careful tug of her bindings released her breasts from their incarceration. Taking a deep bre
ath, Syra wished for nothing but clean sheets and a soft pillow.

  Entering her room, Syra’s head was still fuzzy from the liquor, for she did not sense his presence until a small candle flickered to light.

  “Brutus.” She tried to keep the startle from her voice.

  “So you returned.”

  Syra stiffened. There was a hard glint to the Roman’s eye that had not even dwelled there back in the courtyard. What had happened since they parted?

  “Aye. But I can be gone from Rome within the hour, if you wish.”

  A cryptic look passed over the senator’s face. She could not hope to read his mood. There wasn’t even a glimmer of intimacy in his hard stare. He was like a stranger to her again.

  Brutus only shook his head as he rose and exited the room. “We shall never speak of this night again.”

  Syra bowed her head in acceptance of his declaration. Pain etched his handsome features. Disappointment had broken his strong forehead. He looked more the aged politician than the vital man who had bought a whole string of slaves not a month ago just to know her. Would Rome break her in the same way?

  * * *

  Brutus shut the door firmly, then lost strength in his appendages. He leaned hard against the frame. Every instinct had told him to let her go—to banish her from his house. Why had he not let her walk out? It had been his intent. Whether she was a weapon of Symphia’s or only another victim, there was no reason for this foreigner to spend another day in his household.

  Yet, when she had walked in, her hair just loosed from its braid, Brutus could not see her leave. Somehow, through the pain and betrayal of this evening, he had felt the smallest thrill, as he had when he first saw her. It was like an echo of a beautiful ballad. His heart could not quite take up the tune wholeheartedly, nor could it repulse her.

  In truth, his pulse had quickened when she entered the room. Brutus was slightly surprised that she had returned. He had lost much this night. He did not think his heart could suffer another blow. For this reason, and some others that Brutus could not even admit to himself, he had stayed his hand.