Love Is in the Air (35 page)

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.

The closer that Caesar drew to the platform, the louder the crowd became. Once past the dignitaries, Brutus knew that Caesar would continue beyond the Forum, climbing up Capitoline Hill to Jupiter’s temple. There, Julius would thank the god for his divine help. Brutus could not imagine a more spectacular homecoming for the general.

Just as Brutus felt an urge to give a shout of encouragement for his recent enemy, Julius’ horse stumbled as it made the turn up the hill. At such a speed, Caesar could not correct the chariot, and he was thrown up and over the horse. The conquering hero landed with a sickening thud upon the rough stone.

The crowd quieted to a stifling silence as Julius tried to rise, but was unable. Half a dozen guards surged forward, but Caesar waved them off. At the first sign of trouble, Brutus noticed Marc Antony race down the platform’s stairs to street level. But even then, Caesar refused his first lieutenant’s help.

Brutus could feel the tension from the crowd below. This show had been spectacular, but at what price? Had Caesar overstepped his bounds and displeased the gods? From a crowd that had exalted him, Caesar might well be stoned this night.

But, as always, Brutus need not worry. Despite his bloody hands, Caesar rose on bruised knees and spoke to the worried mob.

“If the gods wish me upon my knees, I shall obey!”

Without further words, Caesar crawled up the steep hill to Jupiter’s temple. In the bright torchlight, every one of the assembled Romans could see their leader’s blood stain the rough cobble, but still he crawled. The crowd accepted Caesar’s humble gesture with their entire hearts, and cheered him on. Brutus might have wondered if the accident were staged, except that Marc Antony’s tense jaw betrayed genuine concern.

No, there was no ruse here this night.

As Julius entered the temple, bloody and bruised, Brutus looked up into the night sky. Could the gods be as easily appeased as the crowd? If not, Rome was destined for dangerous times.

CHAPTER 2

Syra knew the form that lay beneath her arm to be the girl, Navia, but the rhythmic rise and fall of the tiny form still stirred something deep. The girl’s sweat dampened the cloth that separated them. Even before the sun reached its zenith, heat beat up from the rutted road. They must be close to Rome, for Rax had not stopped the caravan the night before.

Their bodies had swayed in unison for the entire night and into the morning as the oxen trudged forward. With every movement, she could feel Navia’s heartbeat against her breastbone. How Syra wished to remove her arm from around the girl’s waist to separate their skin, but to move would wake Navia, and the poor child needed sleep far more than Syra needed relief from their contact.

Her loins remembered well a swaying such as this. But not with a woman, and not in a cart. Her body told her such tales, yet her mind knew they could not be true. To have such a desire and not have it be for the one in your arms made for a most uncomfortable rest. Not that Syra knew for whom the desire was intended. The quickening of her pulse and moisture between her legs served as nothing more than an echo.

An echo of a dream that came not as commonly as the phantom battles, but often enough to remind Syra that she was in fact a woman first and a warrior second.

Strangely, in these intimate dreams, never was she the one to embrace, but was the embraced. She could still feel tender but firm hands coursing over the curve of her hip, the small of her back. Her flesh could remember warm lips coursing up and down her neck. A hot breath that felt not all that different than the approaching figure in the darkened chamber. Either time, it made her heart beat all the faster. Gritting her teeth, Syra pushed such thoughts away. They felt nearly as incapacitating as the dread.

Being disguised as a mercenary much of her life, the only hands that had ever touched her skin had been rough and brutal. To think a man’s touch would bring her pleasure cut across the grain.

And from all that she had heard of Rome, she could expect nothing more. By the end of this day, she and all who traveled with her in these creaky carts would be nothing more than flesh to be bought and sold.

* * *

Brutus was not halfway down the Sacred Way from his estate perched atop Palatine Hill, and already he wished that he had listened to Horat and ridden in the litter. The February sun shone down hot, scorching his exposed shoulder. This road might have a holy name, but his travels were anything but serene. There were so many pedestrians on the road that many were pushed off the stone pathway, churning the roadside dirt into a choking cloud.

Despite Brutus’ white senatorial robe with its distinct senatorial purple sash, he became stalled with the rest of Rome’s impatient population. Brutus craned his neck to see the delay, and was not surprised by the sight.

Defying the Senate’s new decree that all carts must wait until after sundown to navigate Rome’s overcrowded streets, a huge oxcart had somehow managed to bully its way onto the road. Legionnaires were in the midst of forcing the cart off the path. Angry shouts, not of Latin origin, carried on the light breeze. The man was more than likely a merchant bearing silk from the east or perhaps an aphrodisiac peddler from Egypt who felt his cargo was so much more precious than Rome’s endless bureaucracy.

“Sire?” a voice asked beside him.

Brutus looked the petitioner up and down. The man was a little older than he, but his skin sagged on his bones as if he had not eaten in days. His clothes were but rags. Brutus certainly did not recognize him. But by law, he was obligated to hear any citizen’s petition. Even one brought forth on a dusty road.

“Aye,” he replied coolly.

“Will Caesar become king?” the man asked.

Upon those words, the other pedestrians strained to hear Brutus’ response. Many more clamored to Julius’ defense. Brutus shifted in place, unable to retreat from his audience. Emotions were high, and a single misspoken word could bring on a riot.

“Only the gods know the future,” Brutus replied, mentally urging the centurions to clear the path ahead. This was not a debate for the Sacred Way.

“Why are you not defending the Republic?” a woman asked. Others booed the woman. Many shouted out Caesar’s great feats.

The answer to her question was far more complicated than a few military victories. Since Caesar’s return five months ago, the Senate was called to assemble nearly every day. Laws and regulations flowed from Caesar’s new palace across the Tiber. But with the Senate packed with Julius’ supporters and all of the supporters of Pompey, including Brutus himself, still fearing for their lives, he did not know why they even bothered to vote. Each time, it was the same. Caesar’s motions passed with enough room to walk one of his impressive elephants through.

The days of lively debate on the Curia’s floor were over. Now they only convened with the sole purpose of reinforcing Caesar’s stature.

“There is much that must still be determined,” Brutus answered.

The thin man could not be easily dissuaded. “Is it not the Senate’s place to protect us from dictatorship?”

The petitioner was correct, even though the crowd thought to drown out his question with rude comments. Before, not even a year ago, things were so very different. The Senate ruled all. One man could not eclipse the process of law. But after Caesar and Pompey had been elected co-counsels to Rome, greed and pride grew stronger than democracy. The generals were meant to guard and protect the Republic. Instead, the vast Empire could not bridle these men’s ambitions.

Soon, Rome was split in two when Caesar and Pompey strove to control the entire Empire. When those two egos clashed, there was no alternative to civil war. And out of war comes only one victor. Therefore, Julius could call as many sessions as he wished and none would complain, at least not openly.

“The Senate’s place is to serve the people,” Brutus said, as traffic began to flow again. Relieved to be free of the knot of listeners, he straightened to his full height and used his political stature to part the river of pedestrians. But the plebeian’s question hung heavy on his shoulders.

Despite Brutus’ urgency, his pace was stalled once more, and a disturbing quiet fell over the crowd. If this blockage were caused by another oxcart, Brutus himself would stand before the entire Senate and demand a penalty of a hundred gold coins to any errant merchant.

Forcing his way through the stalled crowd, Brutus stumbled to a stop.

No merchant caused this blockage. By the pale flowing silk covering the conveyance and the two pure-white stallions pulling the carriage, it could only be carrying one precious load.

A Vestal Virgin.

Not even senators were allowed a beast-drawn carriage in the city.

Glancing forward, Brutus noticed that one of the great beasts had cut its leg and was bleeding profusely. Bright blood streamed down its limb, despite the handler wrapping the injury with thick muslin. This sight had hushed the normally raucous population. Any injury to a Virgin or her servants was considered the worst of all omens.