Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (26 page)

Caesar.

Damn, but the Virgin had known that he was to be summoned to the palace before he had. Hiding Tiberius’ charm in the folds of his cloak, Brutus did not put up a single argument when the boy motioned him into an ornate litter. There were certain times when you simply bowed your head to the Fates’ yoke.

* * *

Syra could feel the heat evaporate from the air as the sun descended beyond the horizon. The shopping excursion had not been as tedious as she had feared. She had found a merchant well acquainted with Lylith’s demanding palette. The stingy Roman had assured her that the tomatoes were perfection incarnate. Just to hedge any error, Syra had bought half a dozen other plump fruits to assure that Lylith could find no fault with Fiona.

With her task now accomplished, Syra knew that she should head home, but her feet hesitated. Fiona would be worried soon, but still she could not bring herself to climb back up the hill. Twilight was such a special time of day. Even the marketplace was transformed by the fading light. The usual din of merchants shouting their enticements was replaced by the quiet murmuring of lowered voices. Husbands helped wives clear out stalls. Children asked when supper would be ready. It was as if Rome became a city of humans again rather than a multicolored carnival.

Heading east, she skirted the Sacred Way. It would be crowded this time of day, with privileged women walking home with their bags filled with more riches than they would need in a hundred lifetimes.

No, Syra would take the long way around Palatine Hill. She would follow the great wall until she was around the other side. There she would take the small alleyways up the steep slope to the mansion.

As the city quieted, the roar outside the wall escalated. How well she could remember the creaking of wooden carts. Those outside the walls were waiting until Rome’s gates were thrown open to their rumbling conveyances. Then the city would bustle again. Syra planned to enjoy the few minutes when Rome was nearly still—in transition from the day of commerce to the night of pleasure.

Passing one of the gates, Syra watched as the guards changed their duty. The ramparts emptied as soldiers were relieved and repositioned. A part of her mind that would never feel comfortable in this city kept track of all such movements like a mother who always knew where her babe was. Syra had learned this city’s defenses as if she were the captain of the guard. In a few moments, the top of the wall would be nearly empty as the soldiers were brought toward the gates to assist with the huge influx of carts. Rome had grown secure in its greatness and left most of the wall unguarded at night. A mistake that Syra hoped that one day she would take advantage of.

Continuing on her journey, she noticed a small access gate. The door was not normally used for the movement of troops. In truth it was supposed to be locked, but in the past weeks, Syra had realized someone had tampered with the mechanism. Now it was open at all times. Soldiers came down the steps to relieve themselves during the hot summer days or for an early morning rendezvous with a fair maiden. Something made her feet move toward the small wooden door. It had been so long since she had seen the outside world. Syra was beginning to believe that it no longer existed. Rome had become the all, even to her.

Her heart raced as she put her hand upon the thick wood. Syra gave it a shove at the very top, as she had seen a guard do just the week before. The hinges creaked a bit too loudly for her taste, but the door opened. Taking one last look behind her, Syra entered the darkened staircase. Carefully shutting the door behind her, she climbed the steps. Her legs strained at the steep staircase, but still she continued. It was heartening to be doing something so very forbidden.

When she finally reached the top of the stairs, she was most unprepared for what she saw. Syra had remembered the multitude of homes stacked upon one another opening out into field upon field of crops. Instead, lying just beyond the houses was an enormous army. The brightly colored tents extended as far as the waning light illuminated. As the sun plunged behind the horizon, fires were being lit. The bawdy songs of men ready for battle floated up on the light wind. The host assembled was greater than any Syra had ever seen. It boggled her mind that so many men could be gathered together for a single purpose, under a single man. This Caesar had a gift seldom seen in history. She actually felt sympathy for the land that would see this awesome weapon unleashed.

Syra could remember nights like these well. Sitting beside the fire, sharpening her blade. Telling herself and everyone else that she was not afraid of what the next morning would bring. Syra could smell the bite of leather in her nostrils as surely as if she were oiling her saddle. Her heartbeat increased as she remembered the thrill of battle. How ill suited her dress felt at this moment. Would that she were down with those men. Free of her confusion and inner turmoil.

“
You wish to join them?” a voice asked from behind.

Syra did not turn around, for she already knew the tone well. It was the old woman from the market. In fact, she was afraid to even crane her neck for fear the hag would vanish into thin air.

“
It is my calling,” Syra answered simply.

The old woman spat. “You know nothing of your calling.”

“
Would you like to remind me?”

“
If that I could. If that I could.” The old woman shook her head and joined Syra at the rail. “Time is short, you know.”

“
No, I do not.” Actually, that was a lie. Syra could feel a stirring. Much like she did those months ago when the urge to find Rome had been strong. She had not felt such turmoil since then. But now it seemed that both her mind and her body betrayed her. Her dreams were thick and rich. The feel of a sword pommel in her hand or a man’s hands on her thigh felt more real than the bag of tomatoes in her hand. These dreams wanted something from her, but she did not know what.

“
Child,” the old woman said with disgust, “you look to the east, but your life’s path lies behind you.”

When Syra turned to ask the wizened woman to explain, she was gone. She could only shake her head. What did this old woman want? And why did her gut tighten every time she appeared? With the magic drained out of the moment, Syra climbed down the stairs and continued out onto the avenue. Would that she were more like Brutus. His life was charted out before him like a sailor’s map. The Fates seemed to kiss him while they cursed her.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 13

Brutus let the gentle rocking of the litter lull him like a colicky babe. While he would like to arrive at the palace before Caesar consumed too much Egyptian wine, he was glad for this welcome break. Brutus pulled back the curtains to watch the city he loved so dearly pass by. Torches lit the construction sites of Mars’ Temple and Caesar’s new Curia.

Such extravagance
, Brutus thought. But he knew that the world expected such a spectacle, not only of Rome but of Caesar as well. If both were not larger than life, who would willingly submit?

Frowning, Brutus listened more carefully to Rome. Even with all of the ongoing construction, there wasn’t the usual babble of the city streets. It was not that late into the evening, yet quiet had hushed Rome. Usually with a war such as that against the Parthinians so close at hand, the city would be abuzz with rowdy soldiers and heartbroken maidens. Gatherings would be so large that they spilled out into the avenues. Tonight, the litter barely passed another traveler. There was hardly a delay at the towering northern gate. Even the guards seemed edgy at the unnatural stillness.

The bridge over the Tiber was ominously empty. Where were the multitudes of traders and pilgrims that plied the roads at this time of night? The city had a pall to it, and Brutus knew why. Ever since Marc Antony had offered Caesar the crown, the population had been subdued. It seemed that even the common man was hesitant to move until they knew what his leader’s intentions were.

Rome itself held her breath.

Soon, Cleopatra’s mansion shone on the horizon. It glowed like a jewel upon the banks of the Tiber. Brutus had seen it from Rome, but never so close. Immediately upon viewing its splendid walls, one knew that Roman architects did not design the building. It was rumored that Cleopatra was desperately homesick and had summoned one of her own builders from Egypt. One could almost feel the heat of endless sand and the smell of roasted camel on approaching.

Even at this beautiful sight, Brutus cringed. He was loath to listen to rumors, but he had overheard his fellow senators complaining that once crowned, Caesar intended to move the Empire’s capital to Alexandria. Did Julius not know how such thoughts rattled the people to their very bones? Theirs was the Roman Empire, which, to Brutus, necessitated that the capital be Rome. Why was Caesar allowing these rumors to circulate so widely? A single resolution from the Senate could squelch such talk, yet none was forthcoming.

Brutus caught himself when the conveyance tipped backward as the litter made its way up to the palace. Certain that his senatorial sash was adjusted properly, Brutus prepared to exit. Soon, the men lowered the conveyance. Much to his surprise, several dark-skinned servants greeted him rather than Caesar’s personal guards. These Egyptians were clothed in the finest silk, and their skin was oiled to a bright sheen that made them look more like dancers than the Queen’s personal guard.

Women draped in peacock feathers filed out from the palace, and musicians began a tune upon papyrus lutes. Flames spurted from concealed torches. But no other Roman was in sight. It was strange to not see a single centurion in sight.

Shoulders tense, Brutus entered the great hall. The walls were lined with so many brands that the room shone with the brightness of day. The sound of laughter and gaiety rose from the side rooms as they passed along. It seemed that all the life and livelihood of Rome had been stolen across the Tiber.

A doorman, dressed in the manner from across the Mediterranean, opened a set of gilded doors. “The senator, Marcus Brutus.”

A gong sounded so loudly that Brutus flinched as he entered the room. Caesar lounged on a purple settee. His eyes fixed on a sight that Brutus felt was not of this world. The general did not even blink as he entered.

“
Julius.” Brutus nodded to his leader.

It was only then that Caesar seemed to notice him. “Brutus, it has been long since we feasted together.”

The general clapped twice, and several servants appeared carrying trays laden with roasted meats and wine. Brutus ignored the offering, although it was quite obvious that Caesar had been sampling his cellar quite freely. “What might I do for you this night, Julius?”

“
I hear the Ides will be a monumental day?”

Brutus now wished he had taken the seat, as his feet shuffled loudly against the slick floor. “That it should be.”

Caesar’s face seemed too bright under the radiant torchlight. “The people are ready for such a change, Brutus. Why are you not?”

“
The people have chosen—”

“
The people did not tame Spain!” Any shred of composure left Julius as he ranted. “The people did not invade the Britons! The people need a king who has!”

Brutus did not bother to correct his commander. Never mind that Sextus was still stirring civil unrest in Spain, and both excursions into the Britons’ territory ended in disaster. It would take the shipyards a year to replace the fleet that Julius lost. But already the historians were forgetting such embarrassing aspects of Caesar’s legacy. Just as the general himself seemed to. Luckily, Brutus was spared from another tirade as the gong resonated.

The guard announced the latest arrival. “The Queen of Egypt, Cleopatra!”

With the swell of music, bright lotus blossoms were thrown onto the floor, creating a floral pathway for the young queen to gracefully enter. Brutus had heard about much of her beauty, but had not yet seen it for himself. Her skin was far lighter than he imagined one who lived under the desert sun would have. But her pale complexion should not have been a surprise. She was not truly descended from Egyptians at all.

In her veins flowed the blood of Alexander the Great’s general, Ptolemy. Without an heir to Alexander, his generals had divided the great empire into fragments of its former glory. Since Ptolemy’s ascension to the Egyptian throne, brother and sister had married so that the bloodline was pure, and wholly Greek rather than Egyptian.

But her skin was the only attribute that revealed Cleopatra’s Grecian heritage. All else was everything you would expect from one raised upon the Nile. Black kohl lined her eyes, making them swim in a pool of darkness. Her hair was the color of a crow in the dead of night. Brutus could not imagine that was a shade created by nature.

Cleopatra’s complexion was without blemish, and the thin saffron dress was cut in the Egyptian fashion. The left side of her chest was exposed to the air, and even Brutus had to admit it was a most perfect breast. Its dark nipple stood out proudly for all to see.

For one so young, Cleopatra had a bearing that was beyond her years. She held Brutus’ stare without flinching. Much like Syra had, only this Egyptian had the look of imperial disdain. It seemed that everyone in the room was beneath her stature. All except Caesar. For him, the queen smiled and held out her hand. Julius rose and escorted his paramour onto his settee.