Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (28 page)

“
Explain thineself,” Syra demanded. She would not leave until her heart was certain of Tiberius’ last moments.

“
It is none of your concern.”

Syra grabbed Brutus’ shoulder and pulled him to look at her. “It is. You… I…” She groped for words. Her angry emotions threatened tears. “I trusted you.” The words came out a hiss. Syra had not even realized the impact of the sentence until she had spoken it.

His face clouded over. “You cannot any longer. I am caught in a web not of my own spinning. Leave this city before you become ensnared.”

The pain that etched his handsome features broke through Syra’s anger. But how could she trust him? He had Tiberius’ necklace in his hand. Only the killer would have such an item. She felt the silver pendant in hers. It was still warm from Brutus’ touch. Was it guilt that made him keep the evidence? Or was he speaking the truth?

“
If you did not kill Tiberius, how did you come by his token?”

“
It is a foul story, Syra. Just leave and be glad you are free of Rome.”

Now that the rage had fled her body, Syra could see the agony heavy upon Brutus. Still, guilt could weigh upon a man. Who was to say he was not trying to divert blame? Perhaps he was trying to sweeten her with honeyed words rather than violence. Either way, she would not be silenced. Tiberius deserved better than that. The child deserved the truth.

“
I will not leave until I decide for myself if you are to blame.”

Brutus shook his head. “The politics are confused even to me, Syra. Just believe that the situation will get no better for a long while.”

“
Do not underestimate me, Brutus. I fought with Sextus in Spain. I know of Rome’s turmoil.”

Finally in a gush like that of a fountain too long clogged, Brutus detailed the convoluted intrigue that had ensnared them all. It was a vicious match being played upon the game board named Rome. It seemed no matter one’s rank, everyone sought someone as a pawn.

Syra was still confused. “I do not understand. Why would the Virgin use Tiberius to do these deeds against Caesar?”

“
When the time was right, she would have revealed Tiberius’ actions. Everyone would assume that I put the child up to the task.”

“
But what would that have accomplished?”

Brutus sighed, seeming almost too tired to explain further. “With my life in danger, the Virgin assumed I would turn to the conspiracy. I would have been forced to kill Caesar to save myself.”

Syra sank onto the bench next to him, soaking in the tortured words.

“
Why did you not tell me?” she asked.

The Roman’s eyes sought hers. “When you refused me vengeance against Tiberius that night, I thought you a traitor as well.”

“
Betrayal is not in my nature,” Syra answered, her voice husky.

Brutus’ face looked more dead than alive. “Before I left for the palace, the Virgin’s assistant gave me Tiberius’ necklace. She meant to secure my silence.”

“
Did she?”

“
Only for a time.” The Roman’s voice took on new passion. “If you trust nothing else, know that Symphia will pay.”

“
Yes, she will,” Syra echoed. This she-bitch who roamed the city cloaked in white virtue would be brought low.

Brutus’ hand came up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “I will not see you injured as Tiberius was.”

There was a trail of warmth along her skin where his finger had brushed. “Nor I, you.”

Drained of anger, Syra’s chest filled with another hot emotion. She tried to restrain her body, but being so close to the Roman, with both their hearts so exposed, taxed her defenses. Would that he had been the killer. She could have slain him and been done with it. Now her soul ached to comfort Brutus. To comfort them both.

Seeing the pain in his gaze, her hand reached out without her mind instructing it. Gently Syra stroked the cut to Brutus’ lip that she had caused. “I am sorry for even this.”

The Roman cupped her hand in his. “It hurts no longer.”

Syra found herself pulled toward him as if an invisible string tugged her forward. They were so near that she could feel the heat of his breath upon her cheek. His eyes flickered as he tried to read her features—perhaps wondering if he dared come near. Could he not feel the tremble of her hand? The quickening of her pulse as the aroma of his skin caressed her?

The gods could condemn her, but Syra wished for him to pull her in. She had seen so much tragedy in her life. Could she not steal a single moment of pleasure? Her heart did not seem so weighted when she was near this Roman. Brutus brought a spark to her soul that she had thought eternally dead.

The grip on her hand tightened as the Roman guided her even closer. There was but a parchment’s width between their lips. Syra lost control of her restraint and entwined her fingers in his, feeling the strength in his palm. There was so much pain in those gray eyes still. Not even this moment of passion could cauterize his wounds.

For this she desired to feel the moisture of his lips even more. Carefully, Brutus brought his other hand to her neck. There his thumb stroked the tender flesh beneath her ear. Gooseflesh flew up and down her arms, making her feel weak, yet burning.

They were so intimate that her breasts could feel his bare chest through the thin gauze of her dress. Her nipples tightened in anticipation. Not even frozen water could harden them so. Brutus tilted his head ever so slightly. Their lips were apart, yet she could already feel his desire in the space between them. The musky scent of his breath. His quickened pulse pounding against her palm. Closing her eyes, Syra surrendered to this Roman.

“
Brutus!” a shrill voice called from the house.

They were still locked to one another as Brutus’ eyes dilated. His voice filled with horror. “Lylith.”

* * *

Brutus felt Syra’s hand slip away. The Northerner was out of his grasp and into the dense garden before he could apologize.

“
Brutus! Why was no one up to greet me?” his wife squeaked as she walked across the grass. Her lips frowning at the moisture that was sure to ruin her new gilded sandals.

It was hard to speak to his wife when he could still smell the cinnamon on Syra’s lips. He had come so close to tasting the Northerner in a way he had dreamed of since their first meeting. Now Brutus walked inside a nightmare as Lylith berated him for a hundred oversights. It did not seem that his wife had seen their near kiss.

“
Lylith, you were not to arrive until tomorrow morn,” Brutus choked out. His throat still constricted with passion.

“
Is that your excuse? You are just lucky your mother was delayed by her seamstress. Otherwise, you would receive quite the tongue-lashing.”

Brutus straightened to face his shrewish wife. “I do not have time for such things, Lylith. It is best if you find your quarters—”

“
Oh, I shall, and you shall join me.”

He let out a strangled chuckle. He would not regret telling his wife that he would never share her chamber again. Not after knowing the feel of Syra’s warm flesh beneath his fingertips.

Lylith paused in the doorway when she realized he was not following. “The Ides bode badly for all of us if you do not join me.”

Brutus was caught unawares by her proclamation. His wife seldom cared about true politics. Lylith was more concerned with petty squabbles amongst the women of Rome rather than the Republic. And what could his shrewish wife defend him against? She spoke idiocy, and his body yearned to search out Syra.

Since Brutus turned away from her, Lylith’s voice raised. “Do you think me nothing more than a bauble, Brutus? Do you underestimate the daughter of Cato so grievously? Would you rather me go to Caesar with what I know?”

While Brutus doubted that Lylith knew much of anything beyond the color of the silk she liked best, he could not take the risk. He looked back at his wife. “Spit it out, woman.”

Lylith did not answer. She only turned back into the house. Over her shoulder she waved a parchment—one with an official seal upon the bottom.

How had his wife gotten hold of such a document? What did it detail? As much as his heart begged to follow Syra, he could not leave this loose end. He would have to tolerate his scheming wife for a few more moments.

With great reluctance, Brutus followed Lylith inside the house. His wife seemed in no hurry to divulge her information, for she wandered through the house, commenting caustically about nearly every aspect of the dwelling. There was not a single room she did not find fault with.

Before Brutus realized where they were, Lylith jerked open Syra’s door. His wife’s nose crinkled in disgust. “What have you done here? The stench alone would fell an elephant. Do you now decorate with weeds?”

“
Enough, Lylith. Speak your mind.”

“
Here in this slut’s room?”

Brutus had struck a far greater woman for such slander, but he held his temper. He needed the information Lylith had more than the satisfaction of chastising her. His affection for Syra could not be cheapened by one as lowly as Lylith.

“
Did you think you could parade her around Rome without me knowing? Did you?”

Brutus ignored her baiting. He was here for the parchment. “I thought nothing, Lylith. Loosen your tongue, or you will not get another chance.”

While his wife was gloating in her newfound power, Lylith must have heard the finality in his tone, for she would not look him in the eye.

“
Send her away. Throw your support behind Caesar, and this night will be washed clean forever.”

“
Lylith.” The word was more of a growl.

The woman took an unconscious step back and held out the parchment like a shield. “Do not forget that I acquired this months ago. I could have ruined you any time.”

Brutus did not respond. He just kept his eyes focused on hers until she broke the contact.

With far less confidence, Lylith began. “It started all quite innocently, you know. I was just helping your mother clean out some drawers.” Lylith’s tone softened. “She wishes to move further south down the coast. Did you know that?”

His wife had the attention span of a cricket on a warm summer’s night. Actually a cricket’s was longer. It could complete an entire song before moving on to another.

“
In the drawer?”

“
Oh, yes. I found papers. Papers that prove Caesar is not your father.”

Stunned, Brutus jerked the burned parchment from his wife’s hands. “Papers would prove nothing. Only my mother and Caesar would know such things.”

Brutus scanned the document, not realizing its importance. What did records from a Temple of Vesta in the south have to do with his birth?

His wife must have read his confusion. “The villa. Was it not your birthplace?”

How could he have forgotten their family’s old summer home? His mother had retreated there during the last stages of her pregnancy to get away from Rome’s congestion. With this new insight, Brutus scanned the paper more closely.

A babe had been abandoned on the steps of the temple thirty-two years ago. Still, nothing seemed to be related to him. Brutus looked up again to find Lylith with a wicked smile one might find on a tigress just before a kill.

“
Look who signed for the child.”

Brutus skipped down to the bottom. It could not be. How had Horat signed for the babe? What would his manservant be doing at a Temple of Vesta so long ago? Suddenly the date brought recognition. It was the day of his birth.

“
Aye,” Lylith said as Brutus’ face registered the implication.“It seems your mother miscarried, and Horat picked the first baby he could find. Then Olivia passed it off as Caesar’s.”

Brutus could not move, or find the words to respond.

“
Not only are you a bastard, my darling husband, but an orphan as well.”

* * *

Syra ran headlong through the thick foliage. She cared not that a sandal had ripped off in her flight. It felt as if her heart was a ball that children kicked amongst the streets for a plaything. Or a mindless pendulum that swung this way and that, governed by forces well beyond its own. Syra had experienced so many emotions that she could control none of them.

Was it simply the relief that Brutus had not killed the stable boy that made her reach out to the Roman?

Still, the memory of his full lips would not recede. Instead, her mind could think of little else. Why had the image of his bony wife not wiped the desire from her heart? If she gave voice to the ache in her chest, it would drown out all the muses combined.

Syra stumbled to a halt as the lush vegetation gave way to the garden wall. Her fingers found purchase on the rough surface. She kicked off her other sandal, using her toes for a better grip. She would scale this wall and be gone from this place forever. Never mind that she had no coin, or even a purse to hold them in. Syra would leave with only the thin muslin toga she wore.

Just as she crested the wall, tears rose in her eyes. Despite her brave sentiment, her nose could still discern Brutus’ scent lingering in the cloth. Where could she go that his face would not haunt her? Caring not the damage done, Syra slid back down the wall, scraping her knees along the way. Slumping to the ground, Syra cried as she had not since she was a babe.