Love Is in the Air (45 page)

Luckily, this ritual could not drag on much longer. The moon had risen, and the crowd below had drunk enough wine to become a bit too boisterous for much more ceremony. The only formality left was for the high priest to offer the Diadem of Kingship to Jupiter. Then they could disperse, and the mob would fall into something akin to a state-sanctioned orgy. All of which Brutus would happily retire from.

The crowd cheered as Brutus looked to the west. Torches bobbed in the distance. Finally, the priests arrived. In typical theatrical fashion, Marc Antony enjoyed his new role as high priest. He wore tall antlers on his head and fur chaps on his legs to mimic his half-beast god. Antony carried the gilded laurel crown meant for Jupiter. As the high priest leapt in the air and kicked his heels, the mob egged him on. If they were not careful, this intoxicated crowd might descend into a mob.

In three quick leaps, Antony was over the small retaining wall and onto the platform in front of Caesar. Brutus took an unconscious step back. This was not part of the ceremony. What was the young senator up to?

Nearly out of breath, Antony smiled broadly as he raised the laurel above Caesar’s head. “Are thou not a king already?”

With the Diadem hovering above his head, Caesar looked over the crowd, which had stilled to an ear-shattering silence. Brutus saw a look pass between the two men.

Caesar stepped forward and in a booming voice announced, “Jupiter, alone, is King of the Romans! Send the Diadem to him upon the Capitol.”

Antony gave another leaping kick and was back over the wall. The crowd let out its collective anxiety with wild whooping. The mob followed close behind the priests, up to Jupiter’s temple. By the time Brutus turned to Caesar, the general had already descended to the litter that would whisk him away to his private celebration at the royal palace. But Cicero was still standing to the side.

No words needed to pass between the student and his former mentor. Brutus knew exactly what the orator would say. It had not taken Caesar an entire fortnight to seek the crown. Only a single sunset. If it had not been for the crowd’s shocked silence, Rome might well have had a King this night.

* * *

Before entering the house, Syra glanced back to Capitoline Hill one last time. The crowd roared such that it sounded as if the festival were at the next house rather than an entire city away. A huge bonfire had been lit in the Forum Square, and the flickering light stood out against the dark sky.

With a sliver of a moon, it was the only illumination across the night. Tiny figures flocked toward its brilliant light. But Syra was unimpressed. They were but moths to Rome’s hot torch. Eventually they would all be burnt out as well.

Memories still stinging her skin, Syra was careful to avoid the courtyard. She did not need to be reminded of all her losses again. Syra wished only to find some scraps in the kitchen, then head off to bed. Not even a hot bath sounded appealing. Even though she was certain that Brutus would be out all night at this grand festival, she did not wish to risk meeting him again.

Why had she said yes to the invitation to the market earlier? Why had she sat down upon that bench with him the night before?

With a clear head and a sad heart, Syra acutely remembered why she hated Rome—and especially one of its leading citizens. Syra had to respect Brutus for saving herself, Navia, and the rest. For that act of kindness, she would serve him for a short time, then move on to where destiny led.

Quietly, Syra snatched some thick bread and hard cheese from the pantry and ate it on the way to her room. Except for the cool tile underfoot, this moment was akin to her life back in Spain. Some hearty food before spreading her bedroll. No sweet lamb or seasoned squash. This food she was born to.

Entering her room, Syra noticed that Navia was not in bed. Were they working the young woman too harshly? Syra was so busy worrying about the pregnant girl that she did not notice that the bedchamber had been refurnished.

It was not until Syra removed the slick green sash and turned to look in the mirror that she realized the polished bronze had been replaced. The breath in her throat caught as she found the Green Man’s totem upon the wall. And it was no longer altered to resemble a sundial. The affront had been removed, and someone had carefully repainted the petrified wood to match the original color.

Had she not known for certain that the carving had been damaged, Syra would have sworn it had been a Druid who created it. Beneath the emblem was a small table topped with many of the items from the old woman’s stall. A dish made from light oak was filled with savory pine nuts, while a delicate vase carved from limestone held an array of thistle. Hand shaking, Syra reached out to touch the precious keepsakes.

How had they found their way to her room? Had Brutus done such a deed? But he had not been at the Temple of Saturn all afternoon and the festival all evening? Before she could question any further, Navia entered.

“Ah, Syra, you are back. How was the market?”

As Navia gathered a few things, she answered, “Fair. When did…”

Syra could not finish her question, for her throat choked off the words. The scent of pine filled her nostrils and made it hard to speak.

“These things? Smelly, aren’t they? I told them you would not like it, but Horat said Brutus insisted they be here before you arrived.”

“Brutus?” Syra tried to hide her urgency. “Was he not away all day?”

“Aye, but he sent a runner with the items and a page full of instructions for Horat.”

She could not help but move closer to the sweet thistle. They felt dry and rough under her fingertips, but she could not imagine a more pleasant feeling. Syra turned as Navia went to leave again.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, you were gone all day. You did not hear.” If it were not for Navia’s light tone, Syra might have felt a wave of concern. “They have moved me down the hallway. Fiona insists that I have a softer bed and a room that faces the south, so when the babe comes…”

The frail girl rushed forward and hugged her. “I have not truly thanked you, Syra. This place…” Navia glanced around the room. “It is not home, but it is a sanctuary, truly.” Navia took a step back, but still held Syra’s hand. “Fiona says if I am loyal and perform my duties well, Brutus will free me upon the birth of the child.”

Navia must have seen the look of distrust that passed across Syra’s face, for the young girl was quick to state, “I do not know whether to trust these Romans or not, but…” The widow’s face glowed with such hope that Syra made it a point not to allow her own trepidation to cross her face.

“Fiona is certain that Brutus will let me raise the child here and even teach him to read and write. Would that not be wonderful? The cook thinks it is a boy. He could be a craftsman or even a scribe. Is that not good?”

Syra squeezed Navia’s hand. “It is. You should get to bed and rest this artisan of yours.”

Navia’s smile was warm and open. A beauty she had not seen on the entire journey lit the girl’s skin. “You do not mind, do you, Syra? If you wish the company, I will stay.”

“Nay. Fiona is right. You must take care of yourself.”

Without more discussion, Navia left. Syra’s lips trembled. She was both hopeful for the girl and more than a little worried. Syra did not want this frail widow to suffer more heartache. Would Brutus grant all the wishes that his cook promised? And if he did, what was Syra to think?

She brought a thistle to her nose and drank in its rich scent. Just as hate for Rome took root again, this damnable Roman made her heart weep with joy.

* * *

Brutus bumped into yet another bushel in the kitchen. For all the commotion in the Forum, his house was quiet and dark. Without disturbing his slumbering servants, he was trying to find someone still awake. Not even his rambunctious stable boy was underfoot. Normally Brutus would have been pleased, for he had picked his staff for stability and their love of the sedate life, yet tonight he cursed under his breath. There was no one awake to tell him of Syra’s fate.

He had checked the baths to find them cold and unused. The veranda was empty as well. Not even Horat was up, reading in the study.

Abandoning his quest, Brutus quietly walked down the hall that led to Syra’s bed-chamber. Yesterday, he would never have thought to violate his servant’s privacy like this, but Brutus could not help himself. He had to know.
Had
to know whether she was out waiting for Antony.

Hand upon the smooth door, Brutus stopped. What was he doing? He was married, and the Northerner his wife’s servant. Even though he legally owned the fiery woman, Brutus had always given his staff their liberty. After their agreed-upon chores, their time was their own. Freedom was what Rome had been built upon. A value for which Brutus would die. Then why was his hand upon the door, sneaking about in the middle of the night, checking on this woman’s whereabouts?

Brutus knew it had nothing to do with finances, or with an employer’s concern. He was here because of his heart. It ached to think of her in the young Roman’s arms. Brutus knew that if he tried to lie down his mind would spin, and his body would toss and turn. Logical or not, he needed to know.

Before his mind could argue any more, he gently pushed the door open. The bed was empty. His heart sank so quickly he swore that he could hear it hit the floor with a sickening thud. A breeze blew through the hallway and opened the door another inch. Brutus let out his breath, for in the far bed lay his Northerner. Her red hair spilled across the white linen pillowcase. It was the younger girl who was missing from her bed, not Syra.

Brutus should have been satisfied, but his feet moved forward despite his objection. He crossed the room to view the items he had bought for her. Although his matter at the Temple of Saturn was urgent, Brutus had refused to see the wine merchant until the young runner had gone back to the market and bought all of the wares the old woman had at her small booth.

Brutus had even made sure that Horat commissioned an artisan to repair the Green Man’s ward. He would once again have to thank his old manservant. The carving appeared nearly flawless and graced the wall well. He only hoped that Syra’s discomfort had been relieved by her homeland’s tokens.

Taking one last look, Brutus stood but a foot away from the woman who beguiled him. In sleep, her face was serene. The Northerner’s alabaster skin shown in the low light, her lips full and slightly parted. How he wished to reach out and stroke that smooth cheek. But he had transgressed enough this night. Brutus had the knowledge he had come for and would not violate her trust any further.

Turning, Brutus headed for the door, but a soft voice stopped him.

“Thank you.”

By the time Brutus turned back, Syra’s eyes were closed, and it looked as if the woman had never woken. If the words did not still caress his ears, Brutus might have thought Syra had never spoken. But he could remember the fullness of her voice, the slight apprehension in her tone as if she were not used to thanking anyone, let alone Brutus.

“You are welcome.” He had not meant for his voice to be so deep, but he could not rein in his emotions.

How Brutus wished that he could look into those bright green eyes. But it was not to be. He left the room and carefully closed the door behind him. With those two words, Syra had sent his heart soaring. For his entire life, women had uttered their love for him, or cajoled him with sweetened words from the Muses, yet none of these proclamations had touched him like the Northerner’s simple gratitude.

CHAPTER 9

Syra brushed her hair far more slowly than she ever had before. The morning rays peeked in the window as her mind wandered. The memory of Brutus’ silhouette in the night burned in her sight. He had stood so close, yet so far. At the slightest movement of the door last night, Syra had awakened but had been unafraid. Already she knew the Roman’s scent, but had been uncertain of his motive.

If it had been Antony last night, the boorish Roman would have tossed back the covers and lay beside her, confident of her desire. Brutus was utterly unlike that. He was still
Roman
, but Syra was having the hardest time hating the
man
. Brutus had been kind enough to check upon her. Much like a father would a daughter. Or a husband upon a wife.

The romantic haze burned away as Syra thought of Brutus’ own wife, Lylith. Even though the socialite was absent, his vows were still present. It was time for her to put fanciful thoughts from her head. She had been purchased for a reason, and today she was going to find her place in this household.

After a few missed turns, Syra found herself in the pantry. It seemed that all hallways in this household eventually led to the kitchen, much like the roads that ended at the Forum.

“Good morn,” Syra said with not much enthusiasm as she entered.

“So, you have decided to see what Rome looks like in the morning, eh?” Fiona chided Syra once again.

“I came to see what work I am to do.”

Navia was the first to answer. “You can help me with these.”

The young girl held out a handful of potatoes. Syra stepped closer. Those could not truly be potatoes. She had secretly searched the marketplace for the vegetables yesterday and found none.

Fiona kept chopping onions even though her eyes wept. “Do you know what they are?”

Syra took one from Navia’s hand. The surface was filled with knots, and the skin still had dirt caked to it. The weight of the large potato was heavy in her hand. “They are called potatoes.”

The cook snorted loudly. “Well, I hope you know how to cook them. Brutus had all of these delivered late last night.”

Syra looked over the counter to find several bushels filled with her homeland’s vegetable. “Aye. There is much you can make with them.”

“Pasta?” Fiona asked, her eyes slit.

“Nay. I do not think so.”

The cook playfully threw up her hands. “Then what am I to do?”

Even Navia seemed a bit frustrated with the firm root. “We wash them first, aye?”

Syra laughed at both of her companions. These two were in for a treat. “Do you have a grate?”