Would this be his undoing? Was Symphia playing him like a skilled flutist? Did she know exactly which strings to pluck to make Brutus feel so very helpless in the Northerner’s presence?
Brutus caught a glimpse of the sun’s rise out the window. Warm sunlight spilled into the hallway, illuminating it. Perhaps the Fates granted him a boon in Syra? Brutus watched the globe crest over the hillside. Would that Apollo might answer such questions for him. But as always, the gods were mute to his entreaties. Only the flow of Chronos would reveal their desires.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 12
Syra winced as, yet again, she poked her finger with the sewing needle. Bringing the tip to her lips, she sucked the blood from the tiny wound before it could saturate the wispy material. Fiona shook her head. It was not the first time this afternoon that Syra had made such a blunder. Her fingers were much more adept at holding a sword hilt than a tiny needle. But everyone’s efforts were needed these past few days.
Caesar had announced a grand festival to be held within the Forum Square, and the world’s greatest city was abuzz with activity. There was an added tension in this household, for Lylith was to return the next morning.
Through a series of not-so-gently worded letters, their absentee mistress had made her needs clear. Everything must be perfect for the young socialite. While Syra found it all quite ridiculous, Horat and Fiona took Lylith’s blustering ever so seriously. This was why all the women sat in the sewing circle desperately trying to finish a hundred scarves that their mistress would select from the next night. Each one, Lylith had specified, must shine brighter than the crispest ruby.
Taking up her work again, Syra caught Fiona staring out the western window. Concern clouded the older woman’s face. She did not need to ask the cook why she was so disconsolate. The stable boy’s “disappearance” had shaken the household. Horat had even pressed Brutus to hire a private inquisitor to look for the child.
Over the past week, Syra had bitten her tongue so frequently that she feared it would begin bleeding. But how could she tell them not to worry? If she revealed that she knew Tiberius was safely with his father, they would ask questions that she would be unable to answer.
But the pain on Fiona’s features stabbed at Syra’s heart. The cook had been a mother to Tiberius. Could Fiona, at the least, know the truth? Despite the restlessness in her chest, Syra did not speak. Brutus had sworn her to silence, and since he himself had not broken the edict, neither had she.
Besides, there were many ears here this day that she did not trust. Around the sewing circle sat servants from many of Rome’s most prominent wives. Even Calpurnia’s own handmaiden, Delva, stitched a rose onto silk for Caesar’s wife. The constant chatter grated upon Syra’s nerves. She cared little for the stream of gossip that the other women took good long draughts of. The only subject that pricked up her ears was talk of the impending war with Parthia. While the others speculated upon Caesar’s impending kingship, Syra imagined ways that she might thwart the great general on the battlefield. Given enough time and men, Syra was certain that she could turn Caesar’s own strategies upon him.
“I have heard that Antony is quite perturbed with Brutus,” Monri, Cassius’ servant, stated.
Syra straightened in her chair. This was the only other subject that drew her interest. Almost despite herself, Syra found herself leaning in to hear the other servants’ responses.
Giana’s lips pursed. She was the youngest amongst them, yet held a most coveted position amongst the servants. The eastern-born girl served both Antony and his wife in their home. Given her gifts in the arts of massage, Giana was frequently summoned to the royal palace to attend to Caesar when his fits overtook him. None of the other women had yet to step inside the grand Egyptian palace. Only this dark-skinned servant had even a drop of information from Cleopatra’s new residence. To irritate the rest of the women even more, Giana was loath to speak of her experiences there. The girl was much like Syra in that she preferred to let the others blather on while she watched with sharp eyes.
Finally, Giana answered obliquely, “I would not know. My mistress does not speak of such things with me.”
“She would not know Antony’s mind if his skull opened up before her,” Mondi sneered.
“Now, now,” Fiona chided the thin-lipped maid. “We are all friends here.”
Cassius’ servant allowed an approximation of a smile to come to her lips. “That is exactly my point, Fiona. Giana should share her grand adventures at the palace with us, should she not?”
Everyone else sitting around the circle chimed in. Even the normally timid Delva scooted her chair forward. It was certain that in no time soon would Caesar’s wife be invited to Cleopatra’s new abode. This was as close as Delva would ever come to the palace.
“Come now, Giana,” Mondi’s tone coaxed one more story. “I heard Caesar was so enraged at Brutus that he smashed a bottle of wine and cut his hand.”
Brown eyes downcast, Giana tried to avoid the conversation. “I would not know. I was not there.”
“Ah, but Antony summoned you to work the ache out of the wound.”
Shrugging, Giana tried to play off the implication. “There is nothing really to tell.”
Mondi seemed to lose interest in the girl and chattered on with Delva, relaying other tidbits she had heard. “They say the gash went down to the bone. His blood was so thick on the wall that they could not wash it off.”
“That is not true.” Too late, Giana realized that she had fallen into Mondi’s trap. Her voice was but a whimper as she finished. “It was but a scratch.”
All eyes turned to the young foreigner again. She sighed, giving in to the pressure. “This is hearsay, mind you, but Antony had just returned from a meeting with Brutus.” The girl’s tone lowered, as if she were afraid that Caesar would become angered all over again. “The senator again refused to stand upon the Rostra and announce his support for the crown.”
“No, he could not refuse Caesar. Everyone else has pledged their alliance,” Delva exclaimed.
“Aye. That is why it looks peculiar that Caesar’s own…” Giana did not finish the sentence, as Fiona cleared her throat. There was but one rule at these functions. There would be no speculation on Brutus’ lineage. A single mention of the possibility that the senator was Caesar’s bastard son would banish the offender for a full month. “That a man as close to Caesar as Brutus is, has not thrown in his lot.”
“Did Julius threaten him?” Mondi asked, her voice urgent.
“Not in so many words, but I overhead Marc say that Brutus would be summoned to the palace itself this very evening, and the matter would be put to rest.”
Syra’s chest tightened at the choice of words. Would Caesar silence Brutus permanently for his lack of support? She found Fiona’s eyes. The cook’s face was covered with the same mask of concern. Luckily, the conversation turned to fashion once again as Mondi asked what Cleopatra was wearing when this all occurred. These women were nothing more than magpies. Their concentration could be broken with a single flash of a bright bauble.
She noticed, however, that even though Fiona had picked up her material again, the cook’s fingers did not work the thread any longer. Syra glanced at Navia, whose face had not yet recovered from the words that Giana had spoken. Both of her friends seemed shaken. And these women did not know half the danger Brutus was in.
The conversation turned to the festival again, as it had for the past week. It was to be the most spectacular gathering in the history of Rome. And given these women’s concern with dresses and jewelry, Syra did not doubt the celebration would hit its mark. Each of their matrons had decided upon and discarded half a dozen outfits. These women took their apparel as seriously as most generals considered their weapons. The maids talked strategy, as if this party were a battleground and only one woman would come out the victor.
“I hear they will have over fifteen hundred tables in the Forum!” Mondi exclaimed.
“Nay, more like two thousand,” Giana corrected the older servant.
It seemed that Mondi had enough of Giana’s special knowledge this afternoon, for her tone dropped. “So will your mistress be arriving in time for the celebration, Giana?”
“You know she has been detained in Greece,” Giana stated, but would not look up to meet anyone’s eyes.
“More like marooned there,” Mondi snapped back.
Nothing more need be said. They each knew the tale. Marc had surprised his wife with a trip to Greece, only to announce the very next day this grand festival. Everyone knew that Giana’s mistress would never have left, had she known of the impending celebration. The ruse was so very low, but so very Antony. Behind his wife’s back, there were whispers of whom Marc would bring to the celebration instead of his wife. The lieutenant was growing bolder in his infidelity.
“That is quite enough,” Fiona stated, as she set down the scarf she was working on. “I suspect we are done for the day.”
“Nay,” Mondi argued. “I have barely started on the hem.”
“I have a meal to prepare—”
Mondi was not to be denied. “You heard the girl. Brutus will not be home for dinner.”
Fiona’s temper flared. “All the more reason to prepare something special for his return from the palace.”
Before Mondi could inflame the cook further, Delva rose as well. “Fiona is right. Even with festivals on the horizon, we must tend to our households. Even celebrants must eat.”
In the face of the two most senior servants, Mondi bit her tongue and packed away her materials. The others quickly followed suit. Fiona hustled their guests out within a hand’s-width of time. Navia tried to join the cook in the kitchen, but the cook would have none of it.
“Nay, child. Take a nap before dinner.”
“I will not abandon my responsibilities.”
The cook took the girl’s hand. “You have looked peaked all day. If not for yourself, for your babe.”
“But, Brutus…”
Fiona put on a warm smile that Syra doubted the cook truly felt. “He will be fine. I will rouse you if he arrives.”
“Even if you just hear word?”
“You will be the first I summon.”
The younger woman’s face finally relaxed. “A nap does sound delicious.” Navia’s eyes even sparkled with a little mischief. “Not as delicious as your toffee, of course.”
Syra got the not-so-subtle hint. “Which will be ready upon your awakening as well.”
The girl smiled one last time, then set off for her room. The rosy grin on Fiona’s face fell as soon as Navia was out of sight. Syra quietly followed the cook into the kitchen hoping Fiona’s mood would lighten, but as they began preparing the meal, the woman’s face clouded even more.
“Is there something amiss?” Syra asked.
“Nay.” Fiona fidgeted with the squash before her. “It is just… Lylith’s return. It has me…”
“Concerned?”
The older woman only nodded.
“For Navia?”
“Nay. The girl has cleaned up far better than even I imagined. And she’s learned like a tadpole shedding its tail. Lylith will be most delighted at Brutus’ choice.”
“So you are concerned for me?”
The cook actually chuckled a bit. “You? You are like a cat who lands upon her feet no matter the terrain.” Fiona sighed. “I’m afraid that my concerns are far more selfish than that.”
For a moment, Syra’s heart worried. Was Fiona going to reveal a dark conspiracy? For the past week, she had scrutinized everyone around her for signs of deceit. But after days of kneading bread together, it was hard to find reproach with the cook.
Yet, Fiona fidgeted as she gathered the ingredients for dinner. Syra braced herself for the cook’s confession.
“You will think me silly,” Fiona finally admitted.
“Loose your tongue, woman.”
Taking a deep breath, the cook turned with tears in the corners of her eyes. “Once Lylith tastes your toffee, she will have little use for me.”
“You think I wish to replace you?”
“Nay. Not your desire, but Lylith’s, yes. One day soon I may be down in my heels, cooking in the market.”
Secretly, Syra felt relief ripple through her body. There was no plot uncovered, only Fiona’s insecurities. “Brutus surely would not allow that to happen.”
“Perhaps in the past. But now? His mind is elsewhere. It worries me.”
“He is the same man, Fiona.”
“Is he? Two weeks ago I would have wagered a year’s salary that Brutus himself would have been beating down the streets in search of Tiberius. Now he will barely speak his name.”
Indecision tore at Syra. How she wished to comfort this woman. The news would be so soothing to the cook. But she could not reveal that the stable boy was safe without revealing other less-appealing truths. No, she would honor Brutus’ request. Yet there had to be a way to relieve Fiona’s other worries.
“It is simple. I shall not cook.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, child. Then what is your role here?”
“As you said, I will land on my feet.”
Fiona was suddenly distracted as she checked the tomatoes. “Oh, dear.”
“What is wrong?”
“I forgot to buy fresh tomatoes.”
Syra did not see why this was such a crisis. “No bother. We will collect some tomorrow.”
The cook was now nearly frenzied, pulling out all of the fruit in the pantry. “It will be too late. Lylith insists on a fresh tomato every morning.”
“She might not arrive until the afternoon, Fiona.”
There was no dissuading the older woman’s panic. “Or at sunrise. She will be most displeased.”
“There is still time. I shall go down the hill and buy some.”
“You don’t understand. They must be firm, but not too hard.”
Syra gently grabbed Fiona’s trembling hands. “I shall not fail you in this.”
The gravity of her words in ratio to Lylith’s frivolous demands must have penetrated the cook’s worried mind, for Fiona suddenly burst out in laughter. The woman’s hand flew to her lips, as if surprised that the sound had come from her mouth. Seeming to regain her balance, Fiona smiled at her.
“I am sure that you will not. But you need an escort.”
“Horat is down at the Forum.”
“Then take—”
Neither woman spoke as the name hung unsaid in the air between them. Tiberius had been their constant companion on trips such as this. It was still hard to imagine that they would not stumble over the child who was always underfoot.
“I will be fine, Fiona. Just make Brutus some lamb for tonight.”
“Aye. It sounds like he will be needing comfort after the palace.”
With one last squeeze of the cook’s hand, Syra set off.
Behind her, Fiona rattled off Lylith’s preferences. “She wishes them juicy, but not dripping. Red through, but not the color of a bruise.”
Syra was certain that the cook was still listing the qualities of a perfect tomato, but she was quickly out of earshot. In truth she was glad to be out of the house. Since the stable boy’s disappearance, a pall had fallen over the mansion. Brutus seldom came home, and when he did, deep lines creased his face. The Roman had seemed to age a decade in the span of a few weeks.
Now with Lylith’s return, it seemed that there would be no end to the tension. But for now, the sun was setting in a glorious golden orb, and Syra could imagine that she was once more free.
* * *
Brutus repositioned himself yet again in the high-backed chair. This Senate session appeared to be never-ending. Another fresh-to-the-ranks senator was extolling Caesar’s virtues to the packed Curia. But few of his fellow legislators seemed to truly be paying any attention. The whole day had been filled with such filibustering. No serious business had been conducted this day. It was just
a parade of Caesar-worshippers trying to convince Cicero to allow a vote on conferring kingship. Even Julius himself had tired of the constant adoration and retired for the day.
Finally, the paunchy man finished, but another equally unsophisticated senator rose to take his place. Brutus groaned inwardly. Would Cicero not stop this madness? Dragging out the debate would get them nothing except callused bottoms. And there was truly no debate. The lines were drawn, and nothing short of violence seemed to be able to end this stalemate.
“Enough!” Antony bellowed, shocking the entire Senate except for Cicero, who seemed pleased with the younger man’s response. Marc tried to regain his composure, but anger etched his face. “Have you not heard enough of the people’s desire, First Senator? Why will you not call a vote this day?”
Cicero did not even rise from his chair to address the brash lieutenant. “There is much we must consider, Antony.”
“The gods themselves have spoken!”
“Aye, fellow senator. And does not Minerva teach us to constrain our haste? When the gods speak, I think it is the most important time to listen cautiously.”
Brutus could feel the heat across the stage as Antony’s eyes flashed.
“Caesar leaves for Parthia within the week.”
“Do not fret. The vote will be cast before then.”
Frustration was clear in Marc’s voice. “Then tell me, great Senator, why the delay?”
“I have been doing my own research, and it seems the stars come into their best alignment for a decision of such magnitude three days hence.”
“The Ides of March?” Antony pondered out loud. Slowly a smile spread over his flushed face. “Aye. That bodes well. It is a date that shall be remembered. A date that will stand in infamy. You have chosen well, Cicero. May we call this session to a close?”
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 18
