Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (31 page)

“
Wait,” the old woman called out, but Syra did not listen. Strength now flowed through her limbs. This night she would taste freedom.

* * *

Brutus could not hear the lively conversation around him. His ears rang, and his neck was red with shame. What had he just done? Brutus had thought to protect Syra, yet in her eyes he that knew he had hurt her worse than Cassius ever could. No ends could ever justify the means he had used.

Worse, Antony had not been angered with Syra, but with Lylith and Brutus. Antony. Antony, the man who broke hearts and tossed women aside as if they were used saddles. Antony had scolded
him
. Chastised Brutus for his cruel treatment of the Northerner. The brash lieutenant had strode from Lylith and sought out Syra. The man who Brutus had held the least regard for in the entire Empire had shown more consideration than he.

Brutus was so very angry with Lylith. So very angry with Antony. But most of all, Brutus was angry with himself. He had sought to ensure that no man bent him to his will, yet he had allowed Lylith to forge him into the very type of man that he despised.

For so many right reasons he had done all the wrong things.

The burden weighed heavily on his shoulders. For once, he knew how Caesar might feel. When does one draw the line and say, “enough”? When does one know that the cost is too great?

Brutus did not realize he had risen until he felt Lylith’s hand upon his arm. “Where do you think you are going?”

“
To find her.”

Lylith’s eyes sparked in the torchlight. Her lips tightened down to a thin line. “I think not.”

Brutus did not bother answering her. He simply threw down his napkin and turned away. Brutus barely made it behind the curtains when his wife was upon her feet with her fingers dug into his arm.

“
You will not embarrass me so.”

Leaning in, Brutus lowered his voice but filled his tone with threat. “I will do far worse than that if you do not unhand me.”

“
Do not think I will hold my tongue here.”

Brutus’ anger could be contained no longer. His words were reckless, but he cared not. “Tell them, Lylith. Tell them all.”

His wife’s nails dug in deep enough to bring blood onto his skin, but Brutus did not stop. “I will tell them that you knew from the beginning. That it is you who prompts me to assassinate Caesar.”

Lylith’s hand released his arm and flew to her mouth. “Never.”

“
You are Cato’s daughter, Lylith. His views on monarchy were quite clear.” Brutus watched his wife squirm in a noose that she had braided herself. “Like father, like daughter.”

Lylith regained some composure. “They will never believe you.”

Brutus had held his tongue for so long that he had forgotten how much he knew that his wife was ignorant of. “When I reveal that your brother is a conspirator, they will believe.”

Lylith was clearly scandalized by such a notion. Her brother had stood fast in his support of Caesar through the civil war. “Then you spread lies that—”

It was Brutus’ turn to grab his wife’s arm. “Look into my eyes, Lylith. I do not lie. Your brother plots against Caesar, and I will scream it from this table if you do not sit down and make my apologies.”

Lylith’s eyes flickered as she tried to read him. Finally her face sagged, and the light evaporated from her eyes. “Do not expect me to stand by while you ruin my family.”

“
I expect you to see my mother safely to the south.”

“
I will not—”

Brutus tightened his grip, until Lylith gave a squeak of pain. “You will leave Rome this night. From this very party. Do not ever return to my home.”

Tears glistened in his wife’s eyes, but Brutus was immune to sympathy. There was nothing left that mattered to him besides finding Syra and moving his household to safer ground.

“
Betray me, and I will see you both arrested for treason.” Brutus released his wife’s wrist and turned without waiting for her response.

He was out the gate in a few heartbeats, but he stopped. Where would Syra have gone? Would she try to leave Rome? Had she sought refuge with Antony? He would not blame the Northerner if she had, but he needed to know. Without pride, he would grovel and ask her forgiveness.

* * *

With only the thin dress upon her back, Syra stood at the deserted section of the wall that had held her interest just this very day. Her hand wavered an inch from the wood. One good shove and she was free of Rome and all the pain that it had brought her. Why then was she not running full tilt into the night? Why did she linger here, her arms heavy and unmoving? She wished she could blame her feeling of responsibility toward Navia, but Syra knew that would be nothing but a flimsy excuse.

No matter how blistered her heart, she could not deny the old woman’s words. Rome’s song did thrum in her bones. Tears sprang to her already reddened eyes. But this time it was not the pain of humiliation that caused the moisture. It was an ache that begged her to stay. A sense of loss held her trapped so very close to her escape. But what was here to hold her? A busy, smelly city that cared not for her. Worse than that, really. Rome seemed to be aiming its hostility directly at her heart.

“
At the least, take me with you,” a winded voice spoke from behind. Syra swung around to find the old woman hobbling up, leaning heavily on her cane. “You should not have followed.”

“
You go to Scotland, do you not?”

Until the hag spoke it, Syra had not really known her destination. But the old woman’s words had a sense of rightness to them. “Aye.”

“
Take me.”

Even if Syra did not have a heated animosity for this hag, how could she consider the old woman’s request? “I must travel light and fast. I will be a wanted woman by the morn.”

The hag did not seem surprised to hear Syra’s words. Instead, she seemed resigned. The old woman held out a pack.

“
Then take this. You will need it.”

Syra’s back stiffened at the old woman’s boldness. She needed nothing. “Keep it for your own travels.” Spitting, Syra refused to take the satchel.

The old woman’s face flushed with anger. “So you mean to flee in a party dress. Will you eat the frills, then? Hunt with the pins in your hair?”

“
Do not goad me further, woman.”

“
Or what? Will you whip me with the thin straps of your sandal?”

Syra could feel the rage coming back in to her stomach. Did the woman not realize she could snap her in half? It would take no weapon to shut this hag’s mouth forever.

The old woman tossed the bag at Syra’s feet. “Take it or not.”

Syra looked down at the stuffed pack. When she lifted her eyes, the hag was gone. For someone so crippled, the old woman was surprisingly spry.

Tentatively, she reached a hand out. On top of the bag lay a set of man’s clothes. Thick breeches and a rough cloak. Just the disguise she needed to slip from Rome’s clingy embrace. Still, it nagged at Syra. Why had the old woman offered such a thing? Why help her escape when just a few moments ago, the hag had nearly beaten her over the head to stay?

Swallowing down her concern, Syra grabbed the clothes and hurriedly dressed before her limbs betrayed her. Even now, her eyes sought the multitude of torches marking the Forum. How could she have so sorely misjudged Brutus? Was she so used to a feather bed that she could not fathom living on the hard earth again? Steeling herself against such doubts, Syra tossed her dress aside and boldly opened the wooden door.

Within seconds, she was at the top of the wall. Amassed in front of her was Caesar’s great army. But that was not her destination. She did not wish to go east. North was her direction. North to home.

* * *

Brutus found himself at another dead end. Slamming his hand against the wall, he cursed his luck. It had been long since he had roamed the streets of the city. He had been searching for Syra for hours, yet was still empty-handed. Brutus had checked at home first, but of course, her bed was vacant. The city gates were closed this night for the celebration, not that he did not think her capable of scrambling up and over an unguarded section of wall, but Brutus did not think she had left Rome. Would his heart not ache ever worse if she were gone? Perhaps it was arrogance on his part, but Brutus did not think the Northerner could just leave like that.

There was one other place she might have gone. Down at the wharf with Tiberius. Brutus could not believe the Northerner would leave Rome without visiting the boy one last time.

Backtracking, Brutus angled toward the east. He would make his apologies to Tiberius, and if Syra were not there, he would travel to Antony’s. If his search was still unfruitful, Brutus would have to admit that his quest was futile. How that thought weighed heavy upon his heart! There was so much he regretted doing in so short a time. He never should have bent to Lylith’s will. He should have been stronger. For Rome, for himself, for Syra. Would he ever have the chance to tell her such things?

A motion caught Brutus’ attention. It was the third time on this search that he had felt someone was just beyond the periphery of his vision. He swung around swiftly, but once again, there was no one. Sounds echoed off the empty streets from the Forum, making it hard to discern if anyone followed. The threat from Cassius still hung over his head like a cloud from a brewing storm.

Shrugging off his sense of unease, Brutus quickened his pace. The docks were not far. As he approached the wharf, his mind filled with trepidation. Brutus had painstakingly avoided coming face to face with his abject failure. Now the pain was doublefold. For his inaction, the boy was dead, and Syra was gone.

Bracing himself, Brutus entered the shack. The smell of death was almost overwhelming, but he inched forward. The boy’s face was nearly unidentifiable from the river’s cruelty. Still, Brutus could not turn away, for two coins graced the boy’s eyes, and the tiny necklace once again graced the child’s neck. Brutus had no doubt who had placed them there. It was Syra.

Even this faint connection to the woman brought shame heavy to Brutus’ heart. How could he have failed everyone he cared for so miserably? He had placed far too much emphasis on his own life—wreaking havoc and destruction in everyone else’s path to secure his own.

It stopped now.

Shutting the door behind him, Brutus strode out into the street. Now he must consider that Syra had truly fled Rome. Still, he might be able to find her before she made her final escape. Horat had mentioned Syra’s habit of strolling the western wall. Setting a course straight there, his mind spun.

How could his life have taken such a tragic turn? The Fates seemed intent on grinding his heart as if it were a sample of grain. What would he be left with when the Fates were through with him? Could he ever redeem himself from this horrible night? As the evening dragged on, Brutus became less and less certain of the answer.

Torchlight spilled from an open doorway up ahead. Quickening his pace, Brutus felt hope surge in his veins. Perhaps he was not too late after all. Perhaps Syra was still in Rome. At a near run, he shortened the distance, but skidded to a halt once he arrived at the wall.

There upon the ground was a crumpled green dress. Reaching out with an unsteady hand, Brutus picked up the garment. Syra’s scent was still thick upon the cloth—more intoxicating than the most expensive perfume in the market. The aroma filled his nostrils as tears sprang to his eyes. To be so very close. He raced up the stairway and looked out over the lands, but it was clear she was long away from here.

Brutus gripped the stone wall, digging his fingers until they bled. In disguise, it would be impossible to track the Northerner. A part of him still wished to try, though. Caesar be damned. Rome be damned. But Brutus could not bring himself to call the guard. For what would he accomplish even if he followed her? Some wounds could not be healed.

* * *

Hiding behind the thick brush by the river, Syra lay in wait. A ship had dropped anchor not far from the shore. Many ships spent the night downstream of Rome rather than paying another night in the overpriced docks. In the morning, it would sail south to the Mediterranean. Most of the crew had retired earlier, but a few sailors still dotted the deck. Despite her pulse pounding in her ears, Syra kept low to the ground. In moments such as these, patience was hard to come by. The compulsion to flee Rome and the men who dwelled within its walls was strong.

Finally, the straggling crew retired below deck, leaving the night watchman the only one visible. Still, Syra stayed hidden. It would not do to be caught so early in her journey home. Her plan required stealth. She would stow away until this ship reached Osteria at the mouth of the Mediterranean. There, a ship heading west to the ocean would be easy to find. By the snow’s fall, Syra would be back in Scotland.

Making sure that no other stirred, Syra crept forward. With her pack slung across her back, she inched her way to the edge of the bank. Only a few feet of water lapped between the wooden hull and the sandy shore.