Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (24 page)

“
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 breath, 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.

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.”