Love Is in the Air (46 page)

Fiona’s eyes slit even narrower. It was obvious that the older Roman was unused to cooking with new foods. Fiona handed over the rough grate as Syra scrubbed the potatoes clean. These were not the best specimens she had ever seen, but they would make a welcome meal. It took more than one pass to finally clean the rich soil from all the tiny nooks, but finally Syra began grating the potatoes. Juice bubbled up as the inner root was exposed.

Navia snatched a small piece before Syra could warn her. The girl put the raw potato in her mouth, then made a most disgusted face.

“You do not eat them raw,” Syra belatedly instructed Navia.

“There is no doubt in that. I do not think they will ever be edible.”

Syra only smiled. Once she was done with these vegetables, Navia would sing a different tune.

* * *

Brutus watched as the other senators slowly filtered into the Curia. An emergency session had been called early this morning, and his fellow legislators were slow to comply. Most had been out drinking and frolicking the night before. Despite the midday light filling the room, only half the Curia was filled even though the summons had come while the sun still slept in Apollo’s stables.

Earlier this morning, Brutus had hoped that the knock upon his bedroom door was Syra coming to expound upon her gratitude, but he had been sorely disappointed when it was but a clerk from the Forum.

It seemed that the Lucius Cotta, Rome’s highest priest, had called this meeting, which was most peculiar. Why was the priest of ancient prophecies calling the Senate together, especially after such a festive night? Brutus could tell that none of his fellow senators was in the mood for a religious lecture this morning.

Despite his tired eyes and weary bones, Brutus had made certain to arrive at the Curia early. He had little desire to have Cicero or Cassius find him before the meeting. They would fill his ear full of dire intrigue, and Brutus already had enough of that talk for a lifetime.

So the senator stayed seated in his chair to the right of Caesar’s throne and dutifully pored over the grain tallies from Egypt. Jupiter himself could descend from the heavens, and Brutus would ignore him until these blasted totals were reconciled and placed in the Tabularium.

The room stirred, and Brutus looked up to witness Julius enter with Antony. Caesar wore his usual flowing toga with his thick purple cloak, but today the material hung awkwardly. As the general approached, Brutus knew why. Julius was ashen, and his hands shook. Brutus had known the general long, and could sense that Caesar must have had a fit. And by the look of it, the general had spasmed within the hour. Brutus rose as the leader of Rome gingerly climbed the steps to his throne.

“Caesar.” Brutus bowed his head.

The general did not answer—he only waved Brutus back into his seat. This close, he could see that Caesar had bitten his own lip, and blood still clung to the injury. Calpurnia must have put some rouge on his cheeks. Else, the general’s face would have been the unhealthiest gray.

The yarn spun for the commoners was that Caesar was touched by the gods when his body spasmed and convulsed on its own, but Brutus was not so certain. What god would do this to his most beloved? He had wrestled the thrashing general to the floor more than once to put a stick between his teeth during a seizure. There was nothing spiritual about those episodes, yet Brutus held his concern in check. Caesar’s health was not his purview.

“Enough!” Julius slurred. “Start!”

Even Antony was surprised by this outburst. It was beyond all reason. There was at least a quarter of an hour of protocol before a session of the Senate could be begun. Besides, half of the legislators were still to arrive. Cicero was already out of his chair when Antony moved to calm the orator.

“Caesar feels most anxious to hear the priest’s vital words. Can we not allow him to begin?”

Antony’s words might have seemed to ask permission from the First Counsel, but his tone clearly held a warning to Cicero.

The older senator’s face became a blotchy red, in stark contrast to Caesar’s pale color. “Antony, as you know, this great Republic was built upon a foundation of—”

“There will be no vote, man. It is just an announcement,” Julius snapped, then nodded to the priest, who was hovering to the right of the main floor. “Begin.”

A painful silence descended. The priest did not move. Antony held his ground a step above Cicero. The older man’s cheeks billowed in and out with each passing moment. Guards positioned around the Curia held tight to their spears. Each was crested with Caesar’s rich purple colors. Each and every one of the general’s personal guards was here. But to protect what? And against whom?

The tension pounded against Brutus. He snatched a look at Caesar, who looked ready to descend into another fit.

“Begin!” the agitated general bellowed.

Caesar’s fury brought the priest out onto the floor. Cicero opened his mouth to protest, but something in Antony’s eyes stalled the orator. With skin the color of a fuchsia in full bloom, Cicero took his seat.

The nervous priest shuffled in front of the hushed crowd. “I, the Lucius Cotta, come before this great body with humble words. Last eve, after the Diadem was placed upon Jupiter’s crown, I spent many hours in meditation with the Capitoline Triad.”

Brutus nodded to encourage the faltering priest. While this explained why the Lucius Cotta was not present at the Festival of Pan, it certainly did not warrant calling the Senate to session.

“I fell asleep at the feet of Minerva, and in a dream the Great Goddess of Wisdom showed me the Sibylline books opened to a page I had not read since I was but an acolyte.”

A rustling passed through the Curia. While Rome loved its mystical prophecies, having one come to life was always disconcerting. This city liked its gods close at hand, but far enough away to stay out of its day-to-day affairs.

“I read the passage from the holy book and knew that Antony had been divinely inspired last night.”

A rumble started from the back of the room and escalated to full concern by the time it made its way to the floor. Many senators had risen from their seats. Even the new rabble at the back of the Curia had silenced their chatter and stared forward.

Only Cicero seemed rooted in his chair. Brutus could see the older senator’s mind trying to divine the priest’s meaning before the Cotta could speak it. The orator did not like surprises.

“Hundreds of years ago, it was written that only a King could battle the Parthinians. Only a royal king wearing the favor of Jupiter can hope to defeat this most impressive host.”

While none disagreed, there was no silence. Instead, a low murmur spread through the crowd, as if the gods themselves were fretting over this announcement. There were no shouts of victory or loud words of condemnation. How could there be? The Cotta had spoken. The words were from the gods themselves, weren’t they?

Brutus was not familiar with the passage the priest spoke of, but he was certain Jupiter had not written it. Instead, it had been penned by some ancient king. More than likely a not-too-popular king who was launching a campaign against the Parthinians. Probably a man much like Caesar who wished to keep the gods’ opinion in his favor.

The lack of response visibly agitated Caesar, so Marc Antony stepped forward. His smile could eclipse the noon sun. “These are heavy words to ponder. With the invasion of Parthia so near, I think it best that we all retreat to our studies in contemplation.”

No one argued, or agreed. The room simply melted of its members. Brutus, however, could not rise until Caesar did. Unlike his usual confident demeanor, Julius seemed shaken. His face was pale and blended too well with his white toga. Hands that normally gripped a broadsword could barely hold himself to the throne. Julius opened his mouth, but no words came. The great champion’s eyes rolled back, and his teeth began chattering.

His body in the grips of a spasm, Caesar fell to the floor and began convulsing. Arms flung about wildly and his legs kicked at the throne. It was a horror to watch, but Brutus could see why everyone thought the gods were involved. No other force on earth could create such agony.

Antony rushed to the general’s side. But there was little the lieutenant could do except bar Julius from hurting himself. Almost as soon as the spasm came, it dissipated. Only the foam at the general’s mouth told of his body’s transgression.

Once Julius’ eyes cleared, Antony smoothed his hair. “Caesar, I shall call the doctor.”

“No.” The word was slurred, but the meaning clear. “Get me home.”

Antony leant his shoulder. “Cleopatra waits at the palace.”

Julius shook his head and unbalanced the both of them.

Antony looked at Brutus with anger. “Help me!”

Both Longius and Brutus rose, but getting the general to his feet became impossible. It was disconcerting to see Caesar this way. How many seizures had the general had this day? How sick
was
Julius? Was Calpurnia correct?

Caesar turned to Brutus and laid his head upon his shoulder. “Not the palace, Brutus. Home.”

The general looked so very weak and unassuming—like a child who wished to visit his mother’s arms once again. Julius might stray with any beauty he saw fit, but in desperate moments, Calpurnia was his true wife.

“Of course, Julius,” Brutus answered.

Once in the hallway, Caesar’s personal guards rushed forward to relieve them of their burden. Antony stayed close to Julius’ side, while Brutus and Longius hung back. The general no longer needed their assistance. They did not need to accompany him any further. Brutus turned to his brother-in-law, but the normally affable man’s face was etched deeply with a frown. Longius shook his head absently as he headed toward the Forum Square, looking dazed.

It seemed no one was in the mood to talk, for only a scattering of senators lingered in the hallways. And unlike the boisterous discussions that normally took place, the Forum was shrouded in hushed tones. Not quite whispers, but not quite conversations, either.

No matter the reason, Brutus was glad for it. To think he might arrive at the Temple of Saturn not beseeched by the supporters of Pompey felt like music to his ears. Antony had been right, even though Brutus doubted that Marc even knew it. These times were thick with prophecy and pretense. The Fates wove a tight and thick web for them all to struggle in. It would take days, if not weeks, for the Cotta’s words to sink in. And even longer to decide what action to take.

Brutus slowed his pace and turned down a narrow hallway. Making certain that no one noticed, he slipped into a small alcove. These were private cubicles where the senators could retreat in times of debate to clear their thoughts and organize their rebuttals. Brutus carefully closed the small curtain and waited a few breaths. He had not retreated to meditate—instead, he wanted to escape.

Certain that no one else was in the hallway, Brutus moved the small statue of Minerva and opened the back panel of the alcove. It squeaked a bit as the wood slid against the stone. Brutus held his breath, but no other came to discover him. Praising his luck, Brutus entered the secret passage. It had been built centuries ago by the kings for quick escape in times of unrest.

Brutus was not in such distress. He wished only to reach his office unmolested. The hallway was nearly black, but the Roman knew the way well. He knew which boulders jutted out a bit and which turns became slick underfoot.

Within a few moments, Brutus could see the streaks of light that seeped under the exit. Moving a hidden latch in the wall, Brutus opened the door. Stepping out into the corridor, Brutus hurried toward the temple. His escape was nearly complete until Cicero rushed up the steps to the treasury.

“I knew you would retreat here,” the older man wheezed.

“I have work to do.”

“Then let us arrive at your office.”

Brutus groaned. There would be no shaking the First Senator. It was best to simply move along to a more private place to talk. The two walked along the bright corridor. While one wall had been carved out of the hillside, the other had windows hewn from the rock. Light spilled in from the Forum Square.

Instead of the usual bustling crowd, stillness had descended over the courtyard. No one shouted his case from the Rostra. No petitioners pestered senators near the Temple of Venus. It was as if a sickness had palled the citizens and drained the very vitality from them.

“Remember this sight well, Brutus.”

* * *

Syra cleaned out yet another pot. They had gotten quite carried away with breaking the fast. It seemed they had dirtied every dish that this large kitchen had to offer. And servants still streamed in to sample their efforts. Even now, well past the zenith of the sun, food was still being delivered from the market. Fiona was beside herself trying to fit all of the new goods into her pantry.

The cook held up some pungent dried fruits. “Do these have a name?”

Syra took in a deep breath. “Sultanas,” she answered in a distant voice. The smell reminded her sharply of her homeland. Nowhere else had she found this precious commodity.

Navia sniffed and crinkled her nose. “Might we keep them outside?”

“We could, but it will grow moldy quickly. It is used to make Selkirk Bannock.” Smiling a tad, Syra handed the fruit back to Fiona. “A cake.”

“Cake?” Fiona brightened and looked at the sultanas with more respect. “For tonight?”

“Do you not think we have cooked enough this day?” Syra asked, but everyone in the room shook their heads. Especially the young stable boy who still nibbled on the potato flapjacks from breakfast and eyed the scones with a possessiveness that kept one of the workers away from the pastries.

Navia’s face was radiant as she surveyed the food. “We should make a banquet for Brutus!”

Syra cringed at the idea, but all heads nodded vigorously in favor of the young girl’s suggestion. Even the normally reserved Horat was warm to the idea. “It seems unfair that Brutus has bought all this, yet not tasted your labor.”

“I would not presume that he wishes to,” Syra replied.