Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  While Brutus doubted that Lylith knew much of anything beyond the color of the silk she liked best, he could not take the risk. He looked back at his wife. “Spit it out, woman.”

  Lylith did not answer. She only turned back into the house. Over her shoulder she waved a parchment—one with an official seal upon the bottom.

  How had his wife gotten hold of such a document? What did it detail? As much as his heart begged to follow Syra, he could not leave this loose end. He would have to tolerate his scheming wife for a few more moments.

  With great reluctance, Brutus followed Lylith inside the house. His wife seemed in no hurry to divulge her information, for she wandered through the house, commenting caustically about nearly every aspect of the dwelling. There was not a single room she did not find fault with.

  Before Brutus realized where they were, Lylith jerked open Syra’s door. His wife’s nose crinkled in disgust. “What have you done here? The stench alone would fell an elephant. Do you now decorate with weeds?”

  “Enough, Lylith. Speak your mind.”

  “Here in this slut’s room?”

  Brutus had struck a far greater woman for such slander, but he held his temper. He needed the information Lylith had more than the satisfaction of chastising her. His affection for Syra could not be cheapened by one as lowly as Lylith.

  “Did you think you could parade her around Rome without me knowing? Did you?”

  Brutus ignored her baiting. He was here for the parchment. “I thought nothing, Lylith. Loosen your tongue, or you will not get another chance.”

  While his wife was gloating in her newfound power, Lylith must have heard the finality in his tone, for she would not look him in the eye.

  “Send her away. Throw your support behind Caesar, and this night will be washed clean forever.”

  “Lylith.” The word was more of a growl.

  The woman took an unconscious step back and held out the parchment like a shield. “Do not forget that I acquired this months ago. I could have ruined you any time.”

  Brutus did not respond. He just kept his eyes focused on hers until she broke the contact.

  With far less confidence, Lylith began. “It started all quite innocently, you know. I was just helping your mother clean out some drawers.” Lylith’s tone softened. “She wishes to move further south down the coast. Did you know that?”

  His wife had the attention span of a cricket on a warm summer’s night. Actually a cricket’s was longer. It could complete an entire song before moving on to another.

  “In the drawer?”

  “Oh, yes. I found papers. Papers that prove Caesar is not your father.”

  Stunned, Brutus jerked the burned parchment from his wife’s hands. “Papers would prove nothing. Only my mother and Caesar would know such things.”

  Brutus scanned the document, not realizing its importance. What did records from a Temple of Vesta in the south have to do with his birth?

  His wife must have read his confusion. “The villa. Was it not your birthplace?”

  How could he have forgotten their family’s old summer home? His mother had retreated there during the last stages of her pregnancy to get away from Rome’s congestion. With this new insight, Brutus scanned the paper more closely.

  A babe had been abandoned on the steps of the temple thirty-two years ago. Still, nothing seemed to be related to him. Brutus looked up again to find Lylith with a wicked smile one might find on a tigress just before a kill.

  “Look who signed for the child.”

  Brutus skipped down to the bottom. It could not be. How had Horat signed for the babe? What would his manservant be doing at a Temple of Vesta so long ago? Suddenly the date brought recognition. It was the day of his birth.

  “Aye,” Lylith said as Brutus’ face registered the implication.“It seems your mother miscarried, and Horat picked the first baby he could find. Then Olivia passed it off as Caesar’s.”

  Brutus could not move, or find the words to respond.

  “Not only are you a bastard, my darling husband, but an orphan as well.”

  * * *

  Syra ran headlong through the thick foliage. She cared not that a sandal had ripped off in her flight. It felt as if her heart was a ball that children kicked amongst the streets for a plaything. Or a mindless pendulum that swung this way and that, governed by forces well beyond its own. Syra had experienced so many emotions that she could control none of them.

  Was it simply the relief that Brutus had not killed the stable boy that made her reach out to the Roman?

  Still, the memory of his full lips would not recede. Instead, her mind could think of little else. Why had the image of his bony wife not wiped the desire from her heart? If she gave voice to the ache in her chest, it would drown out all the muses combined.

  Syra stumbled to a halt as the lush vegetation gave way to the garden wall. Her fingers found purchase on the rough surface. She kicked off her other sandal, using her toes for a better grip. She would scale this wall and be gone from this place forever. Never mind that she had no coin, or even a purse to hold them in. Syra would leave with only the thin muslin toga she wore.

  Just as she crested the wall, tears rose in her eyes. Despite her brave sentiment, her nose could still discern Brutus’ scent lingering in the cloth. Where could she go that his face would not haunt her? Caring not the damage done, Syra slid back down the wall, scraping her knees along the way. Slumping to the ground, Syra cried as she had not since she was a babe.

  Crumpled there, Syra sobbed. Why, she did not understand. She knew so little of love. For the span of her life, Syra had thought herself immune to the emotion. How could the Roman have insinuated his way into her armored heart? Why had he shown her affection when he was promised to another?

  And why was she not already over the wall and down the avenue this moment? That Syra could not answer fully, only that her legs refused to lift her over the rocky enclosure. It was as if a rope had been tightly cinched around her waist, bound with sturdy horsehair braid, to Brutus. Even if Syra might never know his touch again, she must know that the Roman was safe. To think that she would leave this night, with him in such danger, rubbed her raw. Brutus was in deep water that broiled with monsters far more grim than those that sprang from Hades.

  Certainly, Syra could leave this property and survive as she had before, but what of the day when she had news that Brutus was slain in the Forum? Or worse, in his sleep? No matter how far away her feet took her from this place, Syra knew her heart would break just as surely as if she were by his side.

  Why were the gods so cruel? Had she offended Venus by her very presence? Did the Roman gods disdain this foreigner so much that they doomed her to care for a man she could never love? To have these deep feelings stirred, only to squelch them in the same breath, was cruel beyond any measure.

  How she hated the old hag now. Had the Scottish woman somehow cursed her? For Syra was certain that her fate lay with this tall Roman. No matter how she wished to break the bond, she could feel in her heart that there was no force on earth that could sunder them.

  * * *

  Brutus had not heard half of what Lylith said after she had given over the paper. His wife rambled on about her demands, but Brutus just wandered down the hall. How could his entire life be reduced to a single piece of parchment?

  Once relieved of his wife’s presence, his mind raced at the implications. His heart burned with a million questions. Brutus found that his feet had taken him to Horat’s quarters. With anger bubbling to the surface, Brutus did not bother to knock on the door.

  Jerking the wooden door open, the Roman entered the room. Light came in from torches in the hallway, waking his manservant.

  “Horat!”

  The older man wiped his eyes and rose quickly, but it was obvious the servant was not far from the reaches of sleep. “Brutus? Have they found Tiberius?”

  Brutus flinched at the mention of the boy. But he would not be dissuaded.
There were matters more urgent. The Roman shoved the paper forward. “What do you know of this?”

  At first, Horat looked genuinely confused. Then the older man’s shoulders sagged. The manservant’s hand unconsciously rubbed his bald head, muttering something. Any doubt that he had about the authenticity of the piece of paper was lost at the sight of the old man’s distress.

  Brutus had no patience for Horat’s shock to wane. “How could you?”

  “How could I not?” the manservant shot back.

  The Roman felt heat rise in his chest. How dare this man speak to him so? “I would walk cautiously, old man.”

  “Why?” Horat’s eyes were now sharp and bright in the torchlight. “I have given my life to caring for you, and at the sight of this paper you think to judge me? To condemn me?”

  Brutus was not about to allow the servant to turn the tables. “I think to know why you never told me!”

  “For what purpose? You were born to greatness and—”

  “I was a whore’s mishap!”

  Horat jumped to his feet. “Never say such a thing again.”

  The two stood not an arm’s length apart, but so much separated them. Brutus shook with fury, but could not find the words to unleash it. The manservant took a step back and sat upon his bed again.

  “You don’t understand,” the older man almost moaned.

  “That is most certain.”

  “Can you not imagine that night? Your mother was distraught. To lose Caesar’s son? She thought the sky itself had fallen.” Horat’s eyes lost their focus and gazed beyond Brutus. “She begged me to find another child, and I could not decline. I thought it but a fool’s errand. Where was I to find a newborn in the midst of the night? And how would I secure one once I found it?”

  The old man caught Brutus’ gaze. “But then the winds blew with such force that I sought shelter in Vesta’s Temple. Where else could I turn? I thought prayer would guide me, but the gods had already fixed their sights. I heard your cries before I even bent a knee in supplication.”

  Horat’s eyes drifted again, and he struggled for words. It appeared that his mind strained into the past as hard as his arm would for an apple from the tallest tree branch. “When I first saw you, I knew this was the son that was meant for Rome. Your face shown with such purity…”

  Transfixed, Brutus did not interrupt as the old man faltered. When Horat continued, his voice was thick, as if memories filled his throat. “The stars were so bright that night. It was as if Apollo had shattered a sunray and sprinkled the fragments onto black silk. They held their position even though the wind bent trees to the very ground. In that moment, I told the priestess my sad tale.”

  The manservant looked up again. Brutus had not realized that his feet had brought him closer to Horat until the old man raised a hand and gently pressed his thumb to Brutus’ forehead.

  “She kissed you right there.” Horat removed his thumb. “The priestess said that she blessed you, but truly she blessed me when she placed your tiny form into my arms.”

  The spell cast from the distant past seemed broken as the old man’s voice took on its usual stern manner. “The rest you know.”

  Whatever anger Brutus had felt now ran like a river out of his body. Deflated, the Roman sat down next to the old man. Words were difficult to form since his mind was still reeling.

  “Still…” Brutus tried to think upon one thought long enough to articulate it. “I had not thought you capable of perpetrating such…” Again his lips refused to come to his aid. Finally, Brutus just blurted it out. “Deceit.”

  “What treachery have I perpetrated? Your mother’s life was her own. She spoke to no one of your origin. What others assumed of your lineage, I had no control over.”

  “But Caesar. You have led him to—”

  “Caesar knows, Brutus. He has known since that very night.”

  “But how?”

  The old man patted Brutus’ knee, as he had a thousand times over the years. “No matter your impression today, Caesar held great affection for your mother back then. Do you know why your mother left Rome to carry you to term?”

  “Aye. Caesar would not divorce Julia to marry her. Mother left in a huff.”

  Horat nodded. “That she did. You must understand. Caesar refused to leave Julia, but he feared Olivia would have trouble in childbirth, so he sent a courier to watch the house and fetch a physician at the first sign of trouble. It was only by his true concern for your mother that Caesar discovered her parry around the truth.”

  “Why did he not expose her? Why not tell the world of her deed?”

  The manservant looked Brutus straight in the eye. “Have you not heard me? He loved her. He would not have her name smeared across Rome.”

  “But she meant to deceive him.”

  “Caesar knew that she had acted in despair. He would not have her injured anymore. Julius bade only that she not announce him the father publicly, and he would not publicly deny the claims, either.”

  Brutus felt as though Horat spoke another language. “But why?”

  Horat’s eyebrow shot up. “Would you not do the same for Syra?”

  Fire came back into Brutus’ legs, and he rose to pace the room. “What does the Northerner have to do with this?”

  “If you wish to understand Caesar’s action, you must look to your own heart.”

  “Now you speak nonsense.”

  Instead of dissuading the manservant, Brutus’ dismissal only seemed to enliven the old man. “If Syra sat here with a newborn in her arms and tears streaking her face, could you lift a single finger to harm her further?”

  In truth, Brutus knew that if given the chance he would leave his wife and not look back. But given the look of repulsion on Syra’s face, the Roman doubted he would ever have the opportunity to make such a feat happen. Side-stepping the too painful question, Brutus moved toward the door. “It is late.”

  “It is never too late,” Horat said, the meaning clear.

  Brutus held his tongue. Most times he forgot that Horat was even in his employ. Even though he had always held the manservant in high regard, in this Brutus would not share his heart.

  Instead, he spoke a different but equally important truth. “Lylith means to use this against me. I must find a way around her scheme.”

  Horat fingered the weathered paper. “I should have let your mother burn it.”

  “Why did you not?”

  A strange smile came across the old man’s face. “It was the first time I had ever written your name.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  Brutus could not imagine a more racking torture than to sit next to his wife at this elaborate celebration. Even though the torchlight sparkled against the polished shields all around the Forum, this was the darkest night of his life. The full-bodied wine brought from Julius’ personal cellar tasted flat in his mouth. The tender pastries dissolved upon his tongue, yet left no taste. The hearty laughter all around him fell upon sullen ears.

  Caesar’s celebration was a grand success, and Brutus was all the more miserable for it. All he could think of was Syra’s wounded face when he had banished her from the celebration. Even Horat had looked scandalized. Brutus knew that one day they would understand that the pain he had inflicted upon them was worthy, but this knowledge did not lighten his heart.

  “Dear, smile. You are not in a funeral procession,” Lylith chided, even though she wore a false grin of her own. “Artemidorus is trying to tell you of our king’s new plans for the Curia.”

  Brutus did not bother to correct his wife that Caesar was not yet king. Besides, the woman was only a few days premature in her proclamation. Turning to the flabby senator, Brutus made sure that he nodded at all the right intervals. Suddenly, the portly Roman’s tone dropped.

  “Cassius seeks you tonight.”

  Normally Brutus ignored Artemidorus. The man was always sniveling about an ailment of his bowels or complaining that the Senate was not prote
cting his monopoly of the tangerine trade. What would the obese man know of Cassius’ plans?

  “Then he can find me here.”

  “Beware—”

  Before the senator could speak his warning, Lylith’s shrill voice pieced their conversation.

  “Where is that serving girl? My glass has gone empty again.”

  While Brutus had yet to finish a single goblet, his wife had just drained her third. He turned to Artemidorus, but the enormous man was out of his chair and heading toward the exit. Was Cassius so desperate for conspirators that he had taken even the hypochondriac into his confidence?

  Brutus did not need Artemidorus’ prompting to fear for his life this night. All the signs were clear that both sides of Rome’s internal struggle had run out of patience. Brutus had best decide which side he disliked the least before the decision was taken from him.

  “I will have the girl fired,” Lylith continued as if a fourth glass of wine was the most important matter on his mind.

  Brutus picked up Lylith’s gilded cup. “I shall be back.”

  His wife batted her eyes, as if it were the single most romantic gesture he had ever made. “Thank you, my sweet.”

  Disgust brought such a bitter taste to his mouth that he could not reply. Brutus simply rose and headed to the nearest servant bearing wine. He declined a glass for himself, wondering if the boy with the cup had been planted to poison him. The food most likely tasted dull because with every bite, Brutus had wondered if it was somehow tainted. Or perhaps the next servant he saw would wield a stealthy knife.

  Brutus looked out over the sea of partygoers. The Forum was awash in bodies. One could not move an elbow without hitting another. One could not even hear himself think for the clink of plates and excited conversations. There was not a single missing politician. It seemed that all of Rome had converged upon the Forum this night. Brutus frowned at the packed crowd. Which ones would see him dead? Which ones had the constitution as well to make certain that he died?