Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (3 page)

* * *

Syra knew she dreamed. Knew her body still lay upon the rough slats of the slave cart, a cart she had been chained to for over three months. Yet, she felt that she stood in a rock-hewn chamber. Could she not feel sticky, hot blood dripping between her clenched fingers and a bone-handled dagger? Was the air she struggled to pull into her lungs not stale? Was the marble beneath her soles not slick with slaughter?

All of this she felt as surely as she had felt the blow that had cracked her skull upon the Spanish hill. While battles blended over the decades, Syra knew she had never faced an enemy in a subterranean chamber. She also knew that she had never felt such an entanglement of her gut. A dread that obliterated all hope.

Despite all those years upon the battlefield, she had never known such wretched fear. Something horrible happened in this darkened room. Something worse than betrayal or defeat. Something that threatened to not just destroy her body, but destroy her soul as well.

The darkness tugged at her, beckoning her home. There was not a hint of light to the chamber, yet it felt a beacon.

Remember…

The whisper both caressed and cursed her ears. Syra tensed as a presence approached from behind. Hot breath stroked the curve of her bare shoulder. She gripped the dagger tighter. Dream or not, Syra would not suffer an ambush.

Remember…

Tensing as the stale air stirred, Syra lashed out.

Her fist hit a jawbone, jarring her awake. Instinctively her left hand followed suit, snagging a handful of hair.

“
Don’t! Please!” a woman’s scream pierced the night air.

Shaken and disoriented by the dream, Syra could not place the voice. She only knew it did not belong to the insidious whisperer. It took a moment to realize that the night here had stars, and the air smelled of mildewed hay.

Still, she held a foe by the scalp.

The older woman’s face contorted. “I swear I’ll never try again.”

After the dread of that nightmare, the fact that an old woman had tried to steal the corner of a stringy blanket from Syra seemed not such a mortal offense as it might have before she slumbered.

Syra released the woman, but not very gently. “See that you don’t.”

Free, the gray-haired woman scrambled back, nursing a bruise to her cheek. She was lucky that the bone-handled dagger had only existed in Syra’s dream.

Long ago she had grown accustomed to her mind’s strange nighttime wanderings. As if she did not fight enough on the battlefield, the dreams insisted that she had fought hundreds more in her sleep. Each year they worsened, growing more vivid.

And since being forcibly driven toward Rome? Syra shuddered and tugged the rag over her shoulders, but it provided little comfort. Neither did the slats of the dirty cart that had grown no softer in the passing months. Months of tainted water. Months of jostling all day and into the night. Yet, Syra knew they were months still from their southern destination.

Which was why it seemed odd that the long line of slave carts rumbled to a stop. She knew it was not to feed them. Their cart had been thrown a moldy loaf of bread to share amongst the five of them earlier that day. There would be no more food this evening.

No, the only reason they would stop so soon after the sun dipped below the horizon was to pick up more slaves. There was a great amount of shouting and screaming, yet Syra ignored it. She had had enough loathing in her dreams. She did not need to witness more here. Brother sold off brother. Sons sold off fathers.

Despite this Spanish war being brought by Rome, it had descended into a civil war, splintering the normally tight-knit villages. The wailing continued, but Syra kept her eyes tightly shut. While the other slaves gawked at the spectacle, she tried her to block her muscles’ call to action.

She should be defending these people. Her blood raced to bring these slave peddlers to their knees, but in chains there was little that she could do.

Then a sobbing so inconsonant that it reached Hades itself stirred Syra from her self-imposed exile. Peering over the cart, she watched a tiny slip of a girl being pulled away from a fallen man—most likely a daughter of a man who had chosen to back the wrong side in this despicable war. Tugging her eyes from the tragic scene, Syra adjusted her manacles and tried to find a soft spot amongst the seedy hay, but the wailing continued. Would that woman not accept her fate and climb in the damnable cart? Not even Syra had made it so difficult on the slavers.

Finally the girl must have run out of breath, for only a quiet weeping carried on the crisp breeze. Syra could feel her four cart-mates hunker back down into the hay. Rax must be close. They all feared the sneering slave driver, and none wished to be noticed by the cruel man.

“
I said, drag her!” Rax bellowed as he passed Syra’s cart.

“
But we’ve no more room,” squeaked the slaver’s skinny assistant.

Rax was obviously in no mood to loiter. “Put her in there.”

“
But it is full of men.”

Normally Rax would have agreed with his errand boy. The one thing Rax took care to do was to segregate the men-slaves from the women. Pregnant women fetched far lower prices at the auction block. But tonight, the slaver seemed to be in quite the mood.

“
Maybe they can shut her up!”

Syra could not help herself, and rose high enough to look over the rough wooden cart. Rax’s errand boy practically had to carry the frail girl. She lay completely collapsed in his arms. Only by her weeping could anyone tell that she still lived. The cart that Rax pointed to was filled with three large men. Syra did not know what the slave driver thought. Those three had already killed two captured soldiers and nearly decapitated one of Rax’s guards. The girl would not last a single hour with them.

Syra did not realize that she had stood up until the boy sneered at her. “What do you want, wretch?”

Was it trying to break free of the helplessness from the dream, or just idiocy, that made her announce, “She can ride with us”?

The would-be thief of an older woman tugged hard at Syra’s thin shift and hissed, “No! There are too many already.”

“
What was that?” the boy asked as he sagged under the girl’s weight.

Syra tried to ignore the old woman, but her tugging became more persistent. So far luck had been with Syra. Rax was at the head of the train, goading the oxen forward. But not much of a fuss would bring him back and doom the girl. Grabbing the old woman by the wrist, Syra looked into her bloodshot eyes.

“
No one would be surprised if you died in the night, old woman.” Satisfied that the woman would hold her tongue, Syra motioned the thin boy over. “Bring her here.”

It was obvious that the boy did not wish to go near the cart with the three men, nor did he wish to disobey Rax. “He said to put—”

“
And how angered will he be in the morning if she is dead? He paid a fair price for her, did he not?”

The look on the boy’s face answered her. They both knew that there was no rhyme or reason to Rax’s moods. By the morn, the slave driver would have forgotten his rushed orders and blame the boy for his loss.

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy lifted the newest slave into Syra’s arms. She was surprised at how little the girl weighed. Carefully, she lowered the girl to the cart’s floor. The movement must have jarred the slave out of her shock, for she sprang up, screaming.

“
No!”

Syra brought her beneath the cover of the cart’s sides. They could not risk irritating Rax in his current mood. “Shh. What is your name?”

The girl seemed to have a hard time even remembering this. “Navia.”

“
Navia, you must listen. You are still in danger. You must be quiet.”

“
It’s not fair,” the girl moaned as she slumped. “It’s not fair.”

Rocking her as she would a child, Syra murmured, “It seldom is.”

“
But he… My husband only sold two loaves of bread!”

Syra kept the girl close as she asked, “To Caesar’s men?”

“
Aye. Just like he has for the past six months.” The girl gulped twice. “But this time, Sextus… He… They…”

Syra had seen what they had done. “I know. Shh…”

The girl succumbed to sobbing again, but Syra did not try to hush her. There was no quieting this pain. While Syra hated Caesar with every fiber of her being, she was beginning to despise Sextus more. The bold leader of “independence” had gone into hiding after Caesar had soundly beaten him. The cowardly Roman exile had waited until Caesar was safely across the Mediterranean before coming out from under his rock.

Now Sextus exacted revenge on all those who had given Caesar even the most trifling of support. Innocent men, like this baker trying to support his young wife, were slaughtered in the street and their families sold off.

Syra rocked her as the new slave’s tears wet her shoulder. The girl’s anguish reminded Syra a bit too much of that darkened chamber. The pain too fresh. The feeling that things could never be put right.

Perhaps Syra could do nothing for the horror that played out within her mind, but the girl’s loss could be avenged. The fear brought on by the dark dream hardened into a hatred of Rome normally reserved for the gods.

* * *

Brutus could not believe the sight that unfolded. Gold-armored centurions escorted them through the crowd to an ornate seating area reserved for Rome’s elite. The platform was draped in silk, and every inch of the floor was covered in fur. Not wolf or deer. No, these furs were from distant shores. Black and white striped zebra. A full-maned lion. A deeply spotted leopard, and half a dozen other hides that Brutus did not recognize.

Unlike the hundreds upon hundreds of rickety benches that lined the Sacred Way, there were only a few dozen stuffed chairs arranged on this platform. Actually, these richly appointed seats would be considered worthy of thrones in other countries. Even Brutus’ mother was impressed into silence. His wife, however, found her brother, Longius, and chattered away.

Brutus sighed with relief as Horat pulled up beside him. While most had left their servants down beneath the platform, Brutus was glad to have Horat’s presence. No one else was surprised at the older man’s appearance, either. Many teased that Brutus had a thinner shadow, but he was deaf to such mutterings. It took much to run Rome, and Horat was an able assistant.

If there had ever been a time that Brutus felt near to bursting with pride for this city he was born to serve, it was this night. The torches lit the Forum Square so brightly that one might imagine you did not need Apollo’s assistance during the day. Never had Prometheus dreamed how well man would one day use his gift of fire.

But even more spectacular was the waterfront. The entire shoreline was dotted with torches that burned with bright green, red, and blue. The colors were a feast for the eyes as well as the soul.

Slowly the crowd’s murmurs quieted as a huge barge drifted down the Tiber. Soon, it became apparent that it was no ordinary barge. The entire ship had been dressed to recount Caesar’s first triumphant battle at Pharsalus. Flowers were used to resemble the countryside as plumed soldiers fought staged battles. And above it all was Caesar, astride a gilded chariot.

At first, he looked unto a statue. His gleaming white horse seemed too white to be real, but the beast gave out a snort and pawed at the barge, causing the crowd to startle. Even though the docks were half a city away, Brutus felt that he was but a hand’s-breadth from the returning general.

Brutus grabbed at the edge of his chair as the platform jolted. Were the crowds underneath being unruly? No one else seemed to notice, so he kept silent. Then another jolt came, and Lylith peeped and looked about with those wide eyes of hers. Longius patted his sister’s hand and pointed down the Appian Way. Brutus followed the man’s finger, and even he gasped at the sight.

Striding down the wide avenue were two towering elephants. One raised a trunk and sounded a noise that Brutus had never dreamed that he would hear in his lifetime. How had Caesar managed this feat? There were not just two elephants, or even four. The line of paired elephants went far beyond his sight.

“
How many, brother?” Lylith asked.

“
There are forty!” Longius answered his sister.

Brutus counted them off as they entered the city. His fellow Praetor was correct. Forty of these great brutes marched toward the Forum. With each step, they shook the wooden structure, but no one seemed to notice.

The crowd, so taken by the giant beasts, had all but forgotten the barge approaching the wharf. Once the elephants lined the avenue, a great horn sounded, and all eyes turned to the waterfront.

There the gates of the barge burst open, and Caesar’s chariot hurled onto the street. At a speed considered reckless even upon the racetrack at the Circus Maximus, the general coursed toward the Forum.

From the held-breath silence of the elephants’ arrival, the crowd let out a collective cheer. Then the noise could not be stopped. Brutus cringed. Even the elephants added their trumpeting to the welcoming. He looked across to see Marc Antony beaming with such a fierce pride that it made one believe that he was the one returning home from conquest.