“You overstep your bounds, Symphia. Go back to your Temple—”
“The gods have—”
Brutus towered over the shriveled woman. “The gods know nothing of you, Virgin. They think not of you. They speak not to you. You hold none of their authority.”
The Virgin took a step back as her attendants came forward. “I—”
“Go back to your hearth, old woman.” There was no arguing with Brutus’ tone. The Virgin sputtered a moment, then turned on her heel, leaving Brutus standing alone in the road.
He did not even glance toward Syra, but he spoke to her, nonetheless. “You have grown sloppy.”
Rising from the stoop, Syra dusted off her breeches. “It was not you I was hiding from.”
Syra watched as Brutus strode off toward the Forum. She wished to trot after him and help soothe his soul, but it was a useless endeavor. Nothing short of divine intervention could lessen his burden. Syra looked up at the harsh sun. Apollo seemed unwilling to intercede, so she motioned for Horat to join her.
A cheer went up from the crowd surrounding the Forum as Brutus made his entrance to announce that Caesar would be arriving within the hour. A near riotous din rose from the mob. It seemed that the Fates were becoming impatient for their will to be done.
* * *
Brutus stood perfectly still as Antony arrived. Caesar was only a few steps behind, and each basked in the adoration of the crowd. Suprinna appeared out of thin air and was at Julius’ arm. Fear gripped Brutus’ throat. What manner of intrusion was this? Had Horat been correct? Was Suprinna a member of the Dark?
But Caesar only laughed at his sage. “The Ides have come, Fool, and without bringing me an ounce of harm.”
The old man bowed his head to the general, but the whole while he stared straight at Brutus. “The Ides have in truth come, but they have not yet gone.”
To Brutus’ relief, Caesar shrugged the blind man’s words off and continued talking with Longius. Brutus felt the slender blade within his toga. Would he have the mettle to carry out this action? Caesar’s face was still pale underneath Calpurnia’s makeup. The general’s hands trembled even as he shook Trebonius’ arm. All was going according to plan. Trebonius spoke to Antony, engaging him in debate over the attack on Parthia, while Caesar entered the Curia proper.
Taking a deep breath, Brutus nodded as the general acknowledged him on his climb up to his throne. Just that small gesture made Brutus’ heart ache. For all his faults, Caesar trusted him. It was clear in his eyes. There was no fear or suspicion. Brutus had done an excellent job of engendering confidence. But Brutus was beyond the concerns of men. He acted for the Fates now.
* * *
Syra watched from their hiding place in the hallway as Trebonius delayed Antony at the door. Horat named the man who approached Caesar’s dais. Tillius, one of the conspirators, looked nervous as he hesitated at the first step. Syra willed the man to climb the stairs. It was he who was to strike the first blow.
Tension caused Syra’s stomach to tie itself in knots, like the ropes that secured a ship to the dock. Could they not just kill the man? Why all of this finesse? With a single arrow she could end this charade. But she held her anxiety in check. History seldom liked simple answers.
Finally, Tillius petitioned Caesar. The general gave him permission to climb the stairs, but a commotion at the back of the Curia drew everyone’s attention.
“Oh, dear gods, not Artemidorus,” Horat hissed.
Once more she cursed her late Awakening. What could this flabby senator be doing? “What does he hope to accomplish?”
The servant spat. “He threw his lot in with the conspirators months ago, but he looks to warn Caesar now.”
Syra left their hiding place and sprinted down the hallway while all eyes went to the back of the Curia. Several other centurions converged on the disturbance, but she had to be the first to arrive. Luckily, several other senators were forcing the shouting Artemidorus up the steps into the back of the Curia. Syra came up behind the obese man and placed the point of her sword in his back.
“You will be leaving now.”
“But Caesar. He is in danger.”
“There is no doubt of that.”
* * *
Caesar looked at Brutus. “What was that about?”
“Artemidorus is drunk again.”
The general shrugged off the outburst. It was not the first time the wine-loving senator had broken protocol, but Brutus knew the truth. Artemidorus had meant to betray the assassination.
In some ways Brutus wished that the pudgy man had intervened, but he could see that the senator was being escorted from the Curia. Caesar’s last line of defense was broken.
With great pain, Brutus nodded to Tillius to climb the stairs. The nervous senator took a hesitant step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus watched as the other conspirators came forward. Cassius and Cicero moved near the front. They looked like rabid dogs eyeing their first victim. How Brutus hated being associated with them.
Brutus braced himself as Tillius lunged forward and grabbed Caesar’s robe, exposing his neck. Every muscle in Brutus’ body screamed to protect the general, but instead, Brutus held his place as Caesar threw another conspirator off the throne. Perhaps Julius had more life left in him than anyone thought.
From the other side of the Curia Antony shouted, but it was too late. Cassius was already up the steps and slashed Caesar’s face. Brutus cringed as blood sprayed from the wound onto his toga. There was no going back as the other senators piled atop the flailing general.
Caesar was done for. This pack would never let him rise again. Taking his own dagger out, Brutus crossed the platform. He had meant to stab straight and true to the heart, but when he saw Julius’ desperate face, Brutus faltered and only wounded him in the thigh.
“You too, my child?” Caesar cried out in Greek as he gripped Brutus’ hand.
The terror drained from the general’s face as the blood poured from his body. Julius sank into death as Brutus held him in his arms. He would have held Caesar until the sun set, but Antony charged forward, knocking Brutus away with a back-handed blow.
“Fatherless dog!”
Brutus did not retaliate against Antony’s insult as he sank to the floor, slick with his friend’s blood.
* * *
Syra watched Brutus drop to his knees beside Caesar as Romulus’ dagger clattered to the floor. The life seemed to pour from her lover as it did the dying Caesar.
Fear clutched her chest. Now that the Crux was resolved, Brutus would have little regard for his own well-being, and the Curia had descended into chaos. White robes fled in every direction.
Shoving Artemidorus aside, Syra raced down the hallway, knocking senators over in the process. By the time she reached the stage, the other conspirators had fled, with the exception of Cicero. Who, Syra noted, had not bloodied his hands. The orator tried to calm the crowd, but with the pool of blood ever expanding and Antony’s shouted orders, there was no placating the mob.
Brutus was the last of the assassins on the platform. Syra strode over and grabbed the bloody senator by the arm and tried to yank him to his feet.
Antony turned, thinking she was a centurion. “Get him out of my sight! Place him under house arrest.”
Cicero fussed behind them, but Syra heard not a word. She needed to get Brutus away from this place before vengeance became the topic. Using both hands, Syra jerked Brutus up and onto his feet. He felt leaden under her pull. His toga was splattered in bright red blood, his hands dripping with the sticky liquid.
Grabbing the bone-handled dagger, Syra led him away from the stage. Horat was there to lend a hand. They were through the secret door before the real centurions discovered their deceit.
Brutus finally dug in a heel. “Nay. I should stay with Cicero. Try to make them listen.”
Urging her love to move forward, Syra answered. “They have broken up, Brutus. None will listen.”
“But—
”
Horat interrupted. “She is right. No good can be done here. We must leave the city and rendezvous with Cassius.”
“Cassius?” Brutus’ voice was clearly shocked.
The servant bowed his head in apology. “There was little time to explain the all. Cassius also feared the others would not listen. He has assembled an army outside Rome in your name.”
Syra felt Brutus lean against her as they made their way up the darkened tunnel. To do that which is most foreign to you could strip away centuries of hardening. Even The Fated could feel the pangs of guilt.
* * *
Fleeing Rome was nothing more than a blur to Brutus. They were upon a boat heading down the Tiber before he gained his wits about him. Looking down, he found his toga had dried, and the blood’s color fading to a dirty brown. He felt the coward for running from the Curia, but Horat had been right. Antony was clearly in command. If Brutus did not provide a distraction, Marc would grab all of the power for himself. It would take a common enemy to unite him with Octavius. And once again, Brutus would have to act the stooge.
Syra was at the back of the ship, looking out over the water, making sure that no one followed. Horat was at the front, steering their modest ship. The sails were half full, lazily flapping in the gentle breeze.
Leaning back against the bulkhead, Brutus wished for nothing more than to fade into the starry night. To just dissolve into the tapestry of history like any other common thread. Why were they always the linchpin? Could they not have a single life together without the Crux? Brutus would trade a hundred rebirths for a single, simple life. But that was not to be.
Deep in thought, Brutus did not hear Syra approach.
“Let me help you.”
Syra set down a bowl of water and washed his hands. Soon the bowl turned a dark red. Brutus was somehow reluctant to completely cleanse the blood away. He was loath to part with the last of Caesar.
“You should not hold on so tightly,” she said.
There was no doubt that Syra was right, yet Brutus found it difficult to comply. Caesar had known without reserve that Brutus was not his offspring, yet his final words were as a father to his son.
Tenderly, Syra opened his tight fist and rinsed the red stains from his palm. As the last of the blood disappeared, Brutus felt his strength wane. Syra must have felt his distress, for she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You did what you must.”
For all the right reasons, he had done a most horrible thing.
* * *
Syra leaned against the railing as the moon finally set. It would be only a few hours, and the sun would rise once again. Horat had set anchor earlier and gone down below. She had promised to do likewise, but found she could not stop watching the stars as they moved overhead. Syra had put Brutus to bed hours ago and hoped the rest would soothe his mind.
It tore at her to see him in such pain. She should have damned history and just done the deed herself.
Brutus was always filled with more doubt and trepidation than she. He wished to know the why and the how rather than the what and the when. For all their lives together, this never changed. A single man was dead, and the world would benefit. Syra had not a single qualm about Brutus’ decision. But she knew her lover had many.
If they had any hope of rescuing even a semblance of a life together, Brutus would need his wits about him. They had served history, and once Octavius was in power, they could leave this blasted continent. Leave the Romans to their own right.
While she held great affection for the city, it was now only one of many that she had loved. There were other towns, other villages, other nations they could retire to. The world was a far larger place than even Rome’s wide borders. Perhaps when he awoke, Brutus would realize the same.
* * *
Brutus stirred and felt the coarse muslin against his skin. He had not remembered changing from his ceremonial toga. But this rough, gray material had not a single drop of blood. Looking at his hands, Brutus realized that they, too, were rinsed of his deed. If only his heart could be cleansed so easily. Surveying the cabin, he realized Syra was not present. Rising, he made his way back up to the deck.
There Syra stood, silhouetted by the reflection of the water. Long red hair tumbled down past her shoulders, glistening in the low light. The sight stunned him. Thoughts of Caesar receded as he soaked in her beauty. What was done was done.
If there was a singular lesson he had learned through the ages, it was that history was immutable—and completely unstoppable. If his hand had not been the one to strike a blow, someone else would have, and with far poorer results. Even reluctantly, Brutus had taken his place within the annals of history. Now it was time for him to willingly take his place beside his Fated.
With every step he took closer to Syra, Brutus could feel blood pound in his ear. The curves that outlined her body reminded him of why he was so very glad to be alive. To see his Fated radiant like this was the sole reason he persevered through these trials. It was the only thing that truly mattered.
Syra turned, a look of worry upon her face. Brutus let a slight smile come to his lips. She need not fret any longer.
* * *
Syra watched as Brutus approached. The pain and doubt had vanished under the cover of sleep. Gone too were the shy glances from the Roman. This was the man she had loved for an eternity.
Unlike that first night at Brutus’ when he had shied away from her naked form, Syra noticed that the senator soaked her up with his eyes. There was not a square inch of her skin that he did not survey. Her nipples tightened under his scrutiny, sending a wave of pleasure down her belly to her groin. All this. and he had not even touched her yet.
“Syra.” It was more a moan than a word.
Brutus took a step closer and reached his hand out. Syra leaned her face into his palm as he brought her lips to his. The kiss the day before had been nothing like this.
Tonight, Syra could feel the touch of his lips all the way deep within her loins. They had made love a thousand times before, but the first time within a body was always unique. It was the first time she could share with him all the feelings that eclipsed words. How else could she convey to Brutus that her bones ached when he was not in the same room?
Only her body making Brutus’ own bones ache when she kissed him could convey her love. There were no words to express that a single smile from him could make her heart pound against her sternum.
“Where is Horat?” Brutus asked, passion nearly choking off his words.
“Below. We have the deck to ourselves.”
Syra did not object when his hand wandered down her neck, then settled on her breast. The gentle lapping of the water seemed to be just for them. Groaning as he squeezed the fullness of her chest, Syra’s own hand traced the outline of his toga. As his kiss became more urgent, she slipped the cloth from his shoulder. The toga slid from his body and landed in a pile upon the floor.
Brutus kicked the material away as he freed her from her dress. Their bodies were pressed against one another as Brutus’ hand settled on her hip and pulled her even closer. His excitement was hard against her. Now not just her skin was moist.
She left his mouth, and her lips traveled down his neck. His aroma was the all. The taste of his sweat excited her tongue. Syra sought his nipple and began teasing it with her teeth until it was as erect as hers. Brutus’ groan of delight sent shivers up her spine.
Suddenly, it all seemed too much, too sharp in her mind. It was only hours ago that Brutus was beyond consoling. This was too soon. Syra turned away and meant to move apart, but Brutus’ hands would not allow her. He leaned her back into his chest.
Syra watched the water flow past them as Brutus held her in his embrace, his chin resting on her shoulder. She could feel him bulge against her buttocks. Now he was moist as well. Brutus rocked her hips against him rhythmically. Syra felt a moan slip from her lips. Her Fated knew her too well.
Despite centuries together, t
here were times when the intimacy was too great. When she could feel her self-control slip, Syra would pull back to escape of the intensity, but her love refused her. Her own body now conspired against her as well. Her legs met his rhythm and brought her body up and down against his manhood.
Brutus became hard as their bodies grew as close as their souls. His hand stroked her belly as she arched into him. There were evenings they could make foreplay last until the moon set, but not this night. It had been too long since she had known his passion. She felt empty and needed him to fill her.
Parting her legs, she invited him to claim his right as her Fated. Brutus teased her with the tip of his excitement. With her back to him, Syra could not stop his sensuous torture. He would dip inside enough to part her, then withdraw so that she could feel the pressure, but not enough to quench her.
“Do not toy with me so,” Syra whispered, as once again he pulled back, denying her his sword.
“Do you know how many nights I dreamed of just this moment?”
With that said, Brutus brought her hips back and gently thrust himself deeper within her. She could not stop the sharp cry that escaped her lips.
“What is wrong?” Brutus asked, withdrawing a bit.
“Nothing.” Syra reached back and stroked his neck, her hips begging him to indulge himself again.
He could not be so easily fooled, however. With sure hands, Brutus turned her to face him. “Have I hurt thee?”
Standing on tiptoes, Syra reached up and kissed him fully. “Never.”
She slid her left leg up and hooked it over his hip. Given his state of arousal, there was nothing he could do but slip into her wetness. Syra tried to keep the sting off her face, but Brutus was too attentive. He used his hands to keep their hips apart.
Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity Page 28
