Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (13 page)

Julius’ first lieutenant might be young, but Brutus knew that Antony’s honeyed tongue could turn a group of quiet shoppers into an angry mob within a heartbeat. Brutus looked at Syra, who had turned to watch the exchange. Tears moistened her lashes, but the fire was back in her eyes.

“
I must escort the lady home, then I shall—”

“
Brutus, my heart’s brother,” Antony interrupted him. “You need not worry about the lady. I shall be happy to take the reins this evening.”

Blood pounded in Brutus’ ears. Before he could retort, Syra answered, “That will be acceptable.”

Antony extended an arm, which Syra took, unlike when Brutus had offered his own earlier in the day. Envy must have shown upon his face, for the young senator’s smile broadened as Antony guided Syra into the market.

All of the sounds of the merchants faded, and the glowing sunset dimmed. Syra’s back was the only sight Brutus could comprehend. Would she even give a glance back? Did she know how the tiniest gesture of taking Antony’s arm had wounded him?

Brutus would never know, for the boy dogged. “Sire, they said immediately.”

When he turned back, Antony and Syra had faded into the milling crowd. Not a single glimmer of her emerald sash could be found amongst the mass of shoppers. This wine merchant had surely picked the wrong day to press his negotiations.

Resigned to the Fates’ bitter lesson, Brutus followed the boy up the slope to Capitoline Hill. Someday he would find these Fates and pay them double the pain they had heaped upon him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 8

Syra let her hand drop from Antony’s arm. She had been so angered with Brutus that she had taken the first opportunity to escape his presence. Yet when the senator’s face had clouded over with pain, she had regretted her rash gesture. Once away a few steps Syra had looked back, but Brutus had struck out for the Forum. She must have misinterpreted his frown. The senator probably had not given the exchange a single thought. Brutus was most likely relieved to be free of her presence.

“
Is there something wrong?” Antony asked, with a hint of insincerity. Syra did not believe he cared too terribly about her state of mind.

“
I tire of the market,” Syra said as she put more space between this arrogant lieutenant and herself.

“
Then I shall show you anywhere you wish to go.”

“
I thank thee, but I should be heading back.”

Antony’s strong brow creased. “And where would that be?”

Syra paused in her answer. Antony did not seem to be aware that she was but a slave. Since Brutus had not volunteered this information, neither did Syra. Besides, the term
slave
galled her greatly. She would not speak the word unless forced at sword-point. And much to her chagrin, Syra felt reluctant to stir any trouble for Brutus.

She kept her answer simple and direct. “Home.”

Antony searched her face. Would he press the matter? Instead, his lips parted in a brilliant smile—a grin that more than likely had parted many a girl’s skirts. But Syra was unaffected. What could this Roman offer her? Her land back? A thousand babes brought from their untimely death? Syra wanted nothing to do with Caesar’s right hand.

“
Have you seen much of Rome yet?” he asked.

“
Enough for one day,” Syra replied, as she turned down a road that she hoped led to Brutus’ palace.

Antony placed a hand on her arm, but Syra pulled away sharply. The young Roman seemed genuinely regretful. “I meant no affront, gentle lady. It is just that this avenue is Tucson Road. A lady of your stature should not frequent such quarters.”

Syra did not correct the title that Marc gave her as she looked down the avenue to find an assortment of brothel houses. She turned to find the Sacred Way behind her, filled with affluence and pride. How could these two quarters live side by side?

Rome was filled with such stark contrasts. Brutus’ dark, thick, and curly locks against this Antony’s thin, dull, brown hair. Shaking off such comparisons, Syra strode forward, but Antony trotted to catch up. It was apparent that this Roman was not accustomed to such rejection.

“
Brutus would be quite angered if I were a poor host to his beautiful guest. Please, allow me to show you Rome in her glory.” Antony paused as Syra stopped. When she did not speak, Antony continued in a playful tone, “A tour by one of the city’s architects might not come again.”

“
You helped build these walls?”

“
I do not move stones, my lady. I move countries. When Caesar and I are done, Rome will eclipse all that ever existed.” Antony leaned in. “Let me show you the future.”

Syra wished to be away from this puffed-up braggart, but she also had an unquenchable desire to explore the city. She could not understand the world’s fascination, let alone her own attraction to Rome. Perhaps Antony’s glamour would help her see the blossom of civilization.

She had thought Brutus might impart some insight, but for a reason she could not fathom, each time the senator was near, she had a hard time concentrating on history. With Antony, she could be all ears.

“
Perhaps the Forum would be interesting,” Syra suggested.

“
Ah, so sorry, my lady. There is to be a grand festival this eve. It is closed until nightfall.”

“
Not even the vaunted architect can view his own creation?”

Antony’s eyes flashed at her barb. She had challenged his pride, and with little surprise, the Roman rose to it.

“
If a private tour is what you wish, then so shall you have.”

Once away from the market, their paces quickened. The guards gave only a sharp salute as Antony and Syra strolled past, while other pedestrians cursed with raised fists at the barricades around the Forum.

Despite the variety of temples they had passed, Syra still stood amazed at the grandeur of the Forum. It towered higher than any creation of man’s should be allowed. Thick, strong columns held up a huge slab of solid marble that announced the tribunal. Syra could not help but crane her neck to take in the entire view. And it was not just the Forum that towered overhead—all around the square, impressive buildings rose into the sky. Her eyes were drawn to a tall pole jutting up to the heavens themselves. All along its length were ships’ prows.

“
Ah. That is the Rostra. Those are prows of ships defeated in some of Rome’s greatest battles.” Antony walked up to the wood and patted it as if it were an old friend. “Do not worry. You will be moved to the new Curia, along with several new prows of Caesar’s making.”

Antony turned to Syra with an almost glazed expression on his face. “One will announce,
Veni
,
Vidi
,
Vici
.”

The Roman must have noticed Syra’s confusion, for he translated for her. “Those are Caesar’s words. It is Latin for ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Fitting, is it not?”

Actually the sentiment galled her, but for the moment Antony’s goodwill was necessary. Syra pointed to another tall pole. “What is this?”

Luckily, Antony was so impressed with himself that he did not notice her lack of adoration. “Look closely.”

Syra found numbers etched in gold. “What do they mean?”

“
This is where all roads lead, my most delicate lady. This standard announces how far from Rome each major capital lies. For we are at the hub of a great wheel around which the rest of the world spins.”

Syra tried to keep the contempt from her visage. Did this Roman not realize that entire lands lay beyond the Republic’s “great wheel”? Even her own homeland, Scotland, was still free of Rome’s yoke. But Syra held her tongue. If she wished to know her enemy, she needed him to speak freely.

Walking to the west, Syra spotted a small, unadorned door. It contrasted starkly with all of the marble and grandiose decorations. Stepping forward, she put a hand out, but Marc intercepted.

“
Nay, my dearest. That door is opened but three times a year, and I promise you, you do not wish to be near.”

“
Why?” Syra asked. The door was most unassuming.

“
Do you not know of the Mundus?” After Syra shook her head, Antony continued. “By the gods’ order, we must open this door three times each year to allow in those who wish to contact their ancestors. But remember, once the door is open, the underworld may gain access to us as well.”

Syra was surprised to see how shaken the burly Roman appeared. She studied the door again, and despite Marc’s protest, Syra laid a hand upon the thick stone surface. He was right—even the rock felt cold to the touch. The senator might be disturbed by such things, but in truth Syra was thrilled a bit. This plain, sturdy door, with dangerous mysteries behind it, reminded her of home. This Mundus held secrets kept close in Nature’s heart. Risking much to visit those lost to death sang to her heritage.

Or was it more? The slick surface of the stone door felt vaguely familiar. Syra wondered what the dark hallway might look like. Was it as black as the one in her dream?

“
Please, gentlewoman. Come away. There is much that is bright and beautiful to still see.”

Syra allowed Antony to guide her away from the Mundus, but her thoughts lingered on the opening. She wondered when the door might be opened next time. Syra was about to voice her wonder when they rounded a corner and came upon the most magnificent bronze gate. How many smithies had it taken to forge this enormous structure? And it was not simply smooth. There was much fine edging to it. It must have taken an entire village of forgers to beat out this grand gate.

Antony chuckled as he studied her face. “Would you like to go in?”

Not speaking, else her awe would be revealed, Syra only nodded.

The Roman gave the slightest nudge, and the huge gate swung out smoothly, without a single creak. “This leads to the Curia.” When Syra looked quizzical, Antony continued, “It is where the Senate holds its sessions.”

Syra nearly slipped when they walked onto the marble floor of the Curia. Never had she stood upon something so slick, yet so solid. To their right were rows upon rows of benches. They rose past the torchlight. Syra had seen several buildings that called themselves a theater, but they were wooden and quite shabby. Never had they been built taller than five rows. She had become so engrossed in the Curia that she did not notice that Antony had crossed the stage and motioned for her to follow.

For a moment, she felt trepidation. They were alone. Utterly alone. No guards were posted at the bronze gate they had just entered. How she wished for a weapon again. It was clear what Antony wanted from her. The question was—would he try to take it by force?

Pulling a stray lock back into its confines, Syra felt for one of the long pins that Navia had used to secure her tumble of hair. A smile spread. If Antony did anything untoward, he would be greeted by a nasty surprise.

Her muscles tensed, Syra followed Antony behind a thick velvet curtain. The sight was nothing she expected, yet it seemed she knew it intimately. It was a temple hewn out of rock and granite. The temple from her dream.

In the far back sat an enormous anvil, which glistened in the low light. Syra walked forward and laid a hand upon the cool metal, trying to make sense of it all. How could this place be real?

“
Impressive, is it not?”

It was not just impressive—it stole the breath from her chest. She felt like she knew this anvil as if she forged it herself.

Antony continued, “To appease Venus, our patron goddess, Romulus built this temple to her husband, Vulcan.”

Syra did not bother to correct Marc’s misuse of the gods’ names. In the ancient time of Romulus, Rome had not yet stolen the Greek gods and renamed them for themselves. Romulus had built this temple to Aphrodite’s husband, Hephaistos. How she knew such things eluded her. Syra was only glad to touch the anvil.

Slowly, she walked around the sacred object. The crippled god Hephaistos was considered a forger with no equal. Unlike the other gods upon Mount Olympus who constantly whined and meddled in man’s affairs, Hephaistos hammered metal and brought order out of chaos. This was a god she might be tempted to worship.

“
Careful, Syra,” Antony said, as he urged her around a large slab of black marble set into the floor. “That is the Lapis Nigra.”

Once around the slick floor, Marc explained, “Romulus was killed here. His followers buried him beneath this very spot, and covered his body with marble. Truly a tomb fit for a warrior.”

Sinking to her knees, she fingered the edge of the dark marble. Why did tears force themselves to her eyes? What was an ancient hero’s grave to her? A Roman grave, no less. Yet, in this moment, the grueling cart ride was a small price to pay for touching the Lapis.

Antony was at her side. “Do not feel embarrassed. Many a man has wept at the sight. There are times I can almost feel his presence. As if he speaks to me through the marble.”

Was that what she felt? All around her she could hear the very faintest whispers. Conversations she should understand, but they still eluded her. What would Romulus say to her, even if she could hear? And why would the founder of Rome deign to speak with one who disdained his city so?