Love Is in the Air (47 page)

“Do not be thick, Syra. Brutus enjoys a well-cooked meal like no one else. A banquet it is,” Fiona stated with authority.

“Yes!” Navia seemed near giddy with excitement, but could see her reluctance. “Please, Syra.”

“Do not discard that so lightly!” Syra exclaimed as the girl lifted a pitcher of milk that had been sitting out all morning. “We will need it.”

“For what? It is spoiled, Syra.”

“Do you not wish to find out what butterscotch tastes like?”

Fiona chirped with anticipation. “Does it go on the Selkirk?”

“Aye.”

Navia laid a hand upon Syra’s arm. “He has given us so much already. Should we not reciprocate?”

She had no argument with the younger girl. They both owed Brutus much, and it seemed with each passing moment, more and more.

* * *

After a silent walk, Brutus followed Cicero into Saturn’s Temple. Even though Brutus’ office was tidy with hundreds of scrolls in neat stacks, the room felt oppressively cramped. Cicero seemed to stand too closely, and the temperature of the office made the linen stick to Brutus’ legs. Could this Republic not have a single week in which it ran on greased wheels? Why was someone always throwing boulders in the tracks?

The famed orator stood silently as Brutus cursed the Fates. This was one of Cicero’s famous debating tricks. He would force the opponent to open the argument, and then put him on the defensive. But Brutus was no novice. If Cicero wished to keep silent, all the better.

Ignoring his old mentor, Brutus seated himself and began tabulating the new spice totals from the East. Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus could see Cicero turn glorious shades of red. The older man began pacing, but Brutus kept to his task.

Cicero revered order, protocol, and precision. Certainly the old man railed about Caesar’s excesses, but Brutus knew that a certain amount of jealousy tainted the orator’s words. What Cicero could not do with educated rhetoric, Julius had done with crass violence. The loss of the public’s adoration had stung Cicero far worse than any senatorial decree.

Finally, the orator could take no more shut lips. Cicero pounded his hands upon Brutus’ desk. “Damn it! Do you not care? Did you see them?”

Brutus did not look up. “Who?”

“Those new senators! The Cotta spoke, yet they threw dice upon the very floor of the Curia!”

Brutus kept quiet. He was loath to admit that even he had been shocked at their newest comrades’ lack of decorum. It was said wagers changed hands. Gambling in the Curia! If Brutus cared about such things, he would call it scandalous. He had never thought he would see the day come when the bastion of government could sink quite that low. But he did not wish Cicero to go into an hourlong diatribe, so he cut to the chase.

“That is not what you stalked me for, Cicero.”

“Nay.” The orator paced again.

Brutus knew why the First Senator delayed. The truth would not sound to Cicero’s liking. Normally, the orator liked to bask in his aura of scholarly detachment. Cicero could always sound as if he were taking the road high above all others. But in this, Brutus knew that the First Senator had muddied himself in the rudest of intrigues.

Cicero and his cronies had goaded on the war against the Parthinians. Yes, the Parthinians were a sleeping giant to the east. Yes, if stirred they might be a threat, but the fact was, they were not.

For centuries, the Parthinians had proven they did not wish to enter the west. The reason Cicero had stirred the populace’s blood against the Parthinians was the fact that no Roman had ever bested them in combat. Cicero had plotted to give Caesar an unwinnable war. The others had hoped that either Julius would either be killed in such an engagement or, at the very least, come home in shame.

Brutus wondered what ate at Cicero more. Was it that Rome seemed on the verge of gaining a king, or the fact that Caesar and Antony had bested him at his own game? It was Cicero who was now caught in a vise of his own making.

To Rome’s populace, victory was the all. If the orator did not support Caesar’s ascension to the throne and Julius lost, the Republic would turn in vicious disappointment upon the First Senator. Cicero’s only choice was to support Caesar in his quest for the crown. How that must be eating at the vaunted statesman.

When Cicero did speak, the words were nearly stuttered. “That… That scene last eve was staged! This priest did not spend the night in meditation. They had found the quote weeks ago.”

“More than likely, yes.”

Cicero leaned over the desk, his eyes wild with a pained rage. “Will you watch this Republic crumble? With you watch as all that we have worked for is ground under Caesar’s heel?”

“As always, you exaggerate, Cicero. While I dislike the notion of a king, Julius will build Rome.”

“But at what cost? Dear gods, Brutus, you must see that he is sick. His mind is fevered with wine and that Egyptian.”

Brutus tired of the lecture. “And what do you suggest? Throw Rome into another civil war?”

“If necessary, yes.”

The words were said with such ferocity that they gave Brutus pause. He had not thought Caesar capable of such arrogance to seek the throne, and he had not thought Cicero capable of such bitterness to seek vengeance. It was Brutus’ great misfortune to have been so very wrong on both accounts.

* * *

Everyone bustled about the candlelit dining room, setting out the repast. Fiona had produced a fine silk covering for the table and spread it out with a tenderness normally reserved for babes.

Syra wondered silently if this might have been her life if she had picked up a ladle instead of the sword. Would she have found the warmth of this household? Would she have known the pride of a well-cooked meal rather than a victory on the battlefield?

Before she could answer such a question, Syra noticed that a tear glistened at the corner of the cook’s eye, but she refused to allow it to fall on the precious fabric.

Syra felt uncomfortable, but could not let the older woman suffer in silence. “What is wrong?”

Startled that anyone else had noticed, Fiona tried to brush aside the tear. “Nothing.” But even as she tried to act brave, the cook’s lip trembled. “It is just…” Her hand went out to stroke the smooth cloth again. “It was the last gift from my husband before…”

Syra only nodded. The cook did not need to elaborate. It seemed everyone’s story in the house was similar. Brutus had a penchant for acquiring refugees of fate. Except for Horat, who had been Brutus’ manservant since the Roman was a babe, everyone else had lost loved ones in war. Even the stable boy Tiberius had been orphaned in Rome’s latest civil battle.

Despite the pain, Fiona was a hardy woman and shook off her sorrow quickly. “We must find the large candles.”

The cook was off before Syra could answer. Navia came up from behind with a silver platter laden with Kedgeree. The aroma from the fish filled the room, reminding Syra of the old port town where she had grown up. The fishermen would leave far before the sun rose and come home well past its setting. But each night they would arrive home to this glorious fragrance. How was it that after decades, one could remember a smell as if it had been served only the day before?

“Brutus has not yet arrived,” Syra informed the younger girl.

“Aye, but the dish will not last another quarter hour in the kitchen with this one about.” Navia playfully pointed an elbow to Horat, who was following the platter as if it were a leash around his neck.

Without his usual sternness, Horat’s face had softened into a smile and the look of anticipation. The mixture of spices on the delicate whitefish had been eagerly approved of by the older servant. Even now, he licked his lips. The smell drew the workers from outside like a dinner bell had been rung.

Laughter and warmth filled the room, yet Syra felt strangely discontented. After years of living off the hard land, under the worst circumstances, this levity felt disconcerting. Normally, she was worried where her next meal would come from, not how well her fare would be received. She did not know how to respond when Horat nudged her appreciatively.

It took a few moments for the realization to sink into her heart. This was what it was like to have family. Tears that had a mind of their own sprang to her eyes. This was what she had missed her entire life. The Northerner had never had a hearth to call her home. Never had a mother to tend to her childish scrapes and bruises. Certainly she had never known a dining room filled with love.

In the dim light of the candles, the scene seemed unreal. Was this another dream? Could she really have found a home? Syra had always bolted from one battle to another. Could she ever be content with this life that Navia cherished? Looking down at Navia’s growing belly, for the first time Syra wondered if she herself would ever bear children. Could Syra hope to have a life that she had always fought to protect, but never experienced herself?

There were so many questions flying about her head that Syra had not noticed the young stable boy panting in front of her.

“Yes?”

Tiberius was nearly in tears. “I could not get in.”

“What do you mean?” Fiona asked as she them.

The boy shrugged. “The guard wouldn’t let me in. He said that Brutus did not wish any visitors.”

“Oh, dear,” Fiona said with a frown. “Did the sentry say why?”

“Only that Brutus had asked for an entire skin of oil.”

Horat sighed at Syra’s shoulder. “That means he will be working late into the night.”

Fiona must have seen disappointment on Syra’s face, for the older woman squeezed her hand. “Do not worry, child. There will be another night.”

“I am certain our master would not want this wonderful food to go to waste,” Horat suggested.

With a bit of false cheer, Fiona agreed. “Nay. Gather everyone. We will serve dinner immediately.”

Syra did not move as the others hustled off to the kitchen. A weight had settled onto her heart. She had thought herself immune to disappointment. Her entire life had been a string of defeats and rejection, yet tonight’s regret felt more painful than any in recent memory. It did not feel like a type of disappointment when the last sweetmeat was gone. This felt heavy and pained. Like the last of the bread was gone in the dead of winter, and one had not seen any game for a week.

It was silly, really. Brutus could not attend dinner. It was not an event that would shake anyone else’s world. Why, then, was she frozen in place? Why did she wish to climb up to Saturn’s Temple and bang upon the door herself?

Horat patted her on the shoulder. “He will know of your effort.”

But that was just the thing. She did not want to
hear
of his appreciation. Syra wished to see it. All through the day, she had secretly imagined what Brutus’ face would look like when he first smelled the Kedgeree. What would he say upon his first bite of marmalade? She had wanted to see his lips curl up in satisfaction when he realized the butterscotch had a slightly bitter aftertaste to balance the sweet perfectly. But Syra would see none of it.

Navia accidentally bumped her as she entered with the Howtowdie, a stuffed chicken dish. Helping the girl balance the heavy plate, Syra put on a false grin, much as Fiona had done earlier. The evening would go on despite Syra’s disappointment.

If being a family meant that one could feel like this, Syra wanted no part of it. No part of it at all.

* * *

Brutus rubbed his eyes yet again. Each time it felt as if he had used papyrus to wipe them. His eyes stung from the late hour and the trail of smoke that coiled from the lamp. The oil was long since used up and now the wick fed upon itself. Soon the room would descend into darkness. Brutus could call to the guard outside his door for another skin of oil, but more light would not elevate his eyelids. He had poured himself into his work after Cicero had left, hoping that sheet after sheet of tabulations would soothe his unease, but in this the senator had been unsuccessful. Now he was very tired and very, very hungry.

Rising slowly as every joint creaked with disuse, Brutus stretched his arms. The hour was late enough that he hoped to escape the Temple unmolested by other senators hoping to bend his ear. All he wished now was to walk home under the clear sky and view the constellations that moved overhead. Once home he would eat his fill, then take the hottest bath recorded in all of history.

With these pleasant thoughts running through his head, the senator left his office and dismissed the guard who had been posted. Brutus had taken his privacy very seriously this day.

Descending from Capitoline Hill, Brutus entered the thin hallway that led past the Arylum, the slight depression between the two peaks. From here he would stroll the Sacred Way home. Brutus continued his walk, even though he heard a stirring to the left. No one should be at Jupiter’s Temple this late. Unless, of course, the Cotta was scrounging for more convenient prophecies.

Brutus slowed as a darkened figure approached. A moment of fear clutched him. Many dissenters had been dispatched this way in Rome’s past. Was this how his political career ended? His concern was not eased when he realized it was Marc Antony, hand upon his sword, who approached.

“Brutus, we must speak.”

“I will be in my office upon the morn.”

Antony’s fist clenched the pommel. “Now. I must know what you told Cicero.”

“I do not understand.”

The younger Roman’s jaw spasmed. “Do not play coy, Brutus. Did you tell him of Caesar’s visit?”

For a moment, Brutus did not know what Antony was speaking of. Then he realized that Marc spoke of Julius’ convulsion. “No, of course not. Caesar’s health is his own.”

“It is between him and the gods,” Antony stated, but it sounded to Brutus that the man was trying to convince himself as well.

“May I?” Brutus asked, as he sidestepped the armed lieutenant.

Antony held his ground for a moment, then stepped aside. “Be careful. Caesar may have forgiven you, but I have not.”

Brutus did not answer. Instead, he strode down the path until it opened into the Sacred Way. Why could he not have been born a pauper? Bricklaying sounded like a very attractive profession.