Love Is in the Air (44 page)

“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?

Marc urged her to her feet. Syra did not resist.

“I am sorry to cut our visit short, my lady, but the sun dips, and I must prepare for the festival.”

Syra’s answer was more a reflex. “You have been more than generous.”

Antony guided her out of the Curia just as the sun set. They both paused as the courtyard became drenched in the orange twilight. All of Rome was awash in the most delicious glow. Temples glimmered in the strange light as if lit from the inside, yet not a torch had been fired. The Bronze gate sparkled more brightly than a thousand stars in the sky.

For a moment, Syra could imagine that the gods did in fact caress Rome with their grace. After a heartbeat, the sun lowered, and the affect was lost. But it was a moment that Syra would remember for eternity.

Even Antony seemed at a loss for words. “There is greatness on the horizon, Syra.” He turned to her. “You must stay and see it fulfilled.”

She would stay. But not for Antony’s sake. Something in her heart felt certain that the Fates had placed her exactly where they wished.

* * *

Brutus’ temper was near boiling. The wine merchant had overstepped his bounds and overstayed his welcome. It was about time Brutus told him such.

“You shall deliver the wine, Vitius.”

“Not until you—”

Brutus pointed to the ten huge bronze tablets that hung upon the Temple of Saturn’s walls. All of Rome’s laws were inscribed onto these great slabs of metal. “Have I broken a single one of these edicts?”

The merchant must have sensed Brutus’ change in mood for his tone became more respectful. “Nay, but—”

“We agreed to a price, Vitius. Not just by word but by ink as well.” Brutus shoved the signed papyrus contract at the merchant.

“But I had costs that I did not anticipate.”

“Then you will have a loss of profit. Do not blame me for your miscalculations.”

Vitius’ fat cheeks flared. “You will pay me!”

Patience run out and still greatly worried about Syra, Brutus leaned forward and used a low and controlled tone to make sure that Vitius understood each syllable. “I will open up the Republic’s cellars and let red wine flow down the streets if need be.”

“You cannot! The people expect Greek wine and—”

“If I give them enough of it, they will not care what country it arose from.” Brutus turned to leave. “Unload your wares, quietly and without issue, and I will continue to contract with you. If not, then Caesar will grow to like a new Greek vintage.”

Brutus did not need to turn around to know that Vitius’ face was now the same shade as his infamous burgundy wine. As the merchant exited his office, Brutus glanced out the window. It was far later than he had guessed.

There was no time to head home before the festivities. But how could he stand upon the dais and wave to the crowd, when he was concerned beyond reason about the Northerner? Where had Antony taken Syra? And why had she gone? Where were they now?

Brutus had only one solace. Antony was the high priest of Pan’s cult. The younger Roman had many duties to perform this night. Marc did not have time to seduce the Northerner, did he? Such questions burned. He had never particularly enjoyed the Lupercalia, but now he greatly resented it.

* * *

Freed from Antony’s stifling presence, Syra wandered the market. So much had happened this day. She should have headed to her new home, but her mind wandered to the small booth that sold wares from her homeland. An urge made her seek out the hag’s table. She wished to speak in her true tongue, Gaelic. Syra wanted to hear of the rolling hills and soothing fog once more. Maybe then she could tease Rome from her heart.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the encroaching dark, the market was still filled with shoppers, men frantic to find the perfect offering for Pan. By now, however, most of the gilded trinkets were taken, and these procrastinators were reduced to buying ugly little pottery as their sacrifice. Their desperation was palpable.

The change in atmosphere amazed Syra. Was this not a festival of hearty lust and frivolous play? These Romans were certainly taking it far more seriously than the god himself seemed to.

Turning a corner, Syra knew that she was close to the old woman’s stall. The Persian perfumer still offered the most exquisite glass bottles at the most extravagant prices. Feet stalling, Syra looked around her again.

The tiny stoop that held the booth was no longer occupied. Instead, a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple toga shook out a dirty rug. Syra checked her bearings again. The ivory merchant was to her left. The aphrodisiac dealer to her right, far down the aisle. After years on the battlefield, Syra’s sense of direction was honed to a fine point. This was the exact spot of the booth, she felt certain.

Normally, Syra would not have pursued the matter, but the sweet smell of thistle still tickled the edge of her nose, and she needed but one more sniff to satisfy her soul. Walking forward, Syra cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew the proprietor who had a table here earlier?”

The woman wore an easy smile, but shook her head. “Sorry, dear. We don’t allow merchants.” The Roman cocked her head toward the crowd of ruffians down the street who were rolling dice and shouting loudly. “It attracts a hardened crowd.”

“But I was…” Syra’s voice trailed off as the door opened another crack to reveal the same old woman as earlier, sitting in a rocking chair next to the hearth. “It was she. She had a booth with tokens from the North.”

A look of concern crossed the woman’s face as she closed the door behind her. “No, child. It could not be.”

Syra grew tired of this Roman’s rejection of the truth. Why was the woman being so stubborn? “I spoke with her, but we had yet to settle on a price.”

The woman’s smile fell, and she took a step off the stoop to stand equal with Syra. “Last year, the gods saw fit to take my mother’s mind. She could no more run a booth than I could bring the sun back this eve.” The woman must have seen the look of disbelief on Syra’s face, for she continued, “Child, she cannot even dress herself. She drools if you do not wipe her face so often. It was not she, nor was the booth here.” The woman went back up the step. “Please, continue your search. I hope you find what you seek.”

Syra watched as the woman went back inside the home. A gust of wind followed the woman and blew the door out of her hand. The old hag looked straight into Syra’s eyes. There was no doubt. These gray-blue eyes were the same as the merchant’s. Syra was more certain of it than even her own name. Gaining control of the door once more, the younger woman shut it, but not before the old woman’s lips cracked in a smile. Then she did the most unusual thing. Just as the door eclipsed her view, the hag winked her crinkled eye at Syra.

Before she could respond, the door slammed shut. She had the urge to rush forward and bang on it, but knew it would do little good.

For whatever reason, the Fates had many secrets this day and did not wish to share a single one with Syra.

* * *

Brutus shifted his weight. This festival was dragging on far too long. It seemed each and every man in Rome was determined to offer not only a sacrifice to Pan but a speech as well. If it were not for the fact that he stood next to Caesar upon the podium, Brutus would have slunk off to find Syra.