Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (119 page)

“
Child, you must hurry! The markets close at sundown!”

Syra showed the cook the handful of hair she had pulled out.

Fiona chided her playfully. “You barbarians! Change into this, then we shall fix your hair.”

Syra could not believe what the cook offered. It was a gown that only women who were painted onto murals would wear. A garment for another woman, going to a far more prestigious outing than the market. Syra tried to shove the material back at Fiona, but the cook would have none of it.

“
Dress!”

“
I am dressed!”

“
Brutus is a senator, Syra. No matter how you feel, at his rank, appearances must be kept up. It would not do for him to be seen with a…a…”

“
A?” Syra asked, shame thick in her voice, fearing that the cook would pronounce the dreaded word,
slave
.

Fiona exhaled in frustration. “Such a scoundrel. Now put this on.”

This dress was for a fine lady, not one bound by chains just yesterday. “It is not mine, Fiona.”

The cook ignored her and tugged at the clasp of Syra’s wrinkled toga.

Syra’s voice trembled. “Brutus will be angered to see me in—”

“
Shush, child. Lylith discarded it two winters ago before she even wore it. Brutus will be glad to have someone enjoy the craftsmanship he spent gold coins on.”

“
This is not right,” Syra lamented.

Fiona took hold of both her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Listen to me. This household has had little joy since the war. Do not deprive us of this small extravagance.”

Navia entered, carrying a sash of the most brilliant green. The silk slid through the young girl’s fingers and fluttered to the floor, looking as if a thousand leaves had fallen onto the tile. Not wanting Navia to strain herself, Syra knelt over and picked up the fine material. It was softer than anything she had felt. The sash was cool to the touch, bringing gooseflesh along her arm. How could anyone weave such a fabric? Did the gods themselves sew the garment?

When Syra looked up, she found Fiona looking quite satisfied with herself. “Now will you get dressed?”

Still, she was reluctant to don such festive attire. Who was she to wear such clothing? Syra did not think she would know how to walk in such a dress. Syra preferred coarse wool and thick leather.

Navia touched her arm gently. “Please.”

“
But—”

“
Syra, you have done so much. Let me do this for you.”

She could not deny the younger girl’s request, and submitted to their ministrations—only giving a yip when Fiona took a tuck a bit too tight.

“
I told Brutus I would only be a moment.”

Fiona waved off Syra’s concerns. “He is a man. He is used to waiting for women.”

Despite the cook’s reassurance, Syra felt her trepidation grow. She was not really a woman, was she? For her adult life, Syra had been a warrior—her womanhood hidden deep within the folds of her leather. She never revealed it to the world. Since her early adolescence, Syra had passed as a man. Her body was accustomed to being bound and controlled. Not loose and flowing as this dress. Is this how women the world over felt? Is this how Syra wanted to feel?

Navia cajoled the Northerner’s wild mane, while the cook made sure each of the gown’s folds fell perfectly. Finally, the other women backed away, seeming content.

Syra squirmed under their scrutiny. “Well?”

Navia beamed with a pride that made her sallow cheeks pink. “You shall eclipse the sun, Syra.”

“
I am presentable, then?”

“
Aye,” Fiona said appreciatively, then scooted Syra to the door. “Go! You must not keep him waiting
too
long.”

* * *

Brutus might have been vexed any other time. He had sat out upon the hot bench for what seemed like an hour—an hour that he might have been working on his wheat tallies. By Mercury, he could have gone to the market and been back by now.

Why then, did he wait? And why was he not upset with Syra? If this were Lylith… Well, there was no point in extrapolating. He never would have waited a single minute for his wife.

But the sun dipped dangerously close to the horizon. If Syra did not appear soon, he would be forced to go to the market by himself. And suddenly that no longer appealed to him. Solitude had always been his solace. There was no greater company to him than silence. Yet today, he wished nothing more than to hear Syra’s husky voice.

Rising to pace again, Brutus stopped halfway as Syra entered. It was as if Helen descended from Troy. If it were not for her fiery red hair and brilliant green eyes, Brutus might not have recognized his recently purchased slave. The gown was the color of softly sifted cinnamon, while the sash that covered one shoulder was the color of an emerald held up to the sun’s rays. Her flowing locks were swept up off of her neck into a cascading tower of curls. Syra’s wild hair was artfully constrained by the finest gold braid.

The Northerner had no need for the layers of powders that his wife usually favored. Syra’s cheeks had a blush of their own, her lips a natural, deep red. It was hard to imagine that just yesterday the woman was encrusted with mud and covered in rags. Dressed such as this, Syra could easily enter a palace feast and have a dozen suitors press down upon her.

“
Is it not to your standard?” Syra asked.

Brutus stumbled over his answer. Up to his standard? He did not even know that a woman could look so radiant. Syra had far surpassed any expectation he had ever had. But he could not find the words to articulate his amazement.

“
Shall I change?”

“
No.” Brutus might have been tongue-tied, but he was quite emphatic on that point. Trying to cover his embarrassment, he motioned toward the litter. “We had best be going.”

Syra hung back, however. “Might we walk? My legs would like to feel solid ground beneath them.”

And what lovely legs they were
, Brutus thought, but kept his tongue from straying. Once again, he could think of nothing intelligible to speak, so he simply walked down the path, hoping that Syra followed. They were far down the Hill where the residential path emptied into the Sacred Way before Brutus’ heart began beating at a normal pace. Syra’s presence was like a beacon on a stormy night. It took another few moments before he finally regained the use of his tongue.

“
How does Rome compare in the day?”

Syra sounded a bit overwhelmed. “Busier.”

Brutus was so used to the bustling crowds that he had not even thought that the pressing traffic might bother the Northerner.

“
Here,” Brutus said as he extended his arm to her.

Syra looked at his elbow, but did not take it. Letting his arm fall to the side, Brutus tried to act reserved, for he was far more disappointed than he had any right to be.

Covering the awkward silence that descended, Brutus spoke. “Romulus has gathered together quite a city, has he not?”

“
One man built all of this?” Syra asked, with a hint of awe.

“
Nay. Rome was not built in a day.” Brutus could not help but chuckle. “All of this has taken over six hundred years to mold, and if it weren’t for a few geese, it might never have formed.”

Brutus watched as she gazed over the width and breadth of the city. For a woman whose posture spoke of world travels, her eyes sparkled with a naïveté that the senator found more attractive than a thousand painted courtesans.

As they continued down the Sacred Way, Syra asked, “Geese?”

Brutus pointed to the hill beyond the spiral of smoke that rose from the Vestals’ fire. “See that peak?” He continued once Syra’s eyes focused on the distant hill. “It is the Arx. One of its temples is named Juno Moneta.”

Syra’s head tilted, questioning. “She who warns?”

“
Aye. When Rome was nothing but a flicker of Romulus’ imagination, enemy forces surrounded him. He and his people took shelter in a small fort they had built upon that high ground. They rested in preparation for the next morning’s battle.”

Brutus paused as he scanned the beauty next to him. They had come to a stop as Syra studied Capitoline Hill with interest. While most women would be bored by talk of old wars, Syra seemed captivated. Finally her eyes left the far-off hill, and she looked at him.

“
They had few men, so they only guarded the gentle slope to the west. In the night, the enemy, whisper-quiet, scaled the steep side to the east.” Brutus pointed to the area. “It was only the luck of the Fates that his woman insisted upon keeping geese for the goddess Juno. The geese cried out in the night when the enemy forces were about to breach the gate.”

“
They acted as sentries.”

“
Aye. Juno’s temple was the first built once Romulus took control of the valley.”

“
Why did the enemy not mount their attack from the south?” Syra pointed to the mild grade that made up the southern portion of the hill. “That would have been far easier to scale and would have been downwind of the stronghold.”

Brutus looked upon Syra with a greater appreciation. Not many generals he knew would have noticed such a thing. “Back in time, this entire area to the south was flooded with swamp. The trek would have been too laborious.”

Syra’s eyes dilated. “All this was underwater?”

“
With the exception of this hill, aye.”

* * *

As they walked forward, Syra could not help but test the ground beneath her. It felt firm and solid. Even a bit dusty. How could all of this area have been submerged? How could man alter nature in such a way? How arrogant were these Romans? Syra had been to Stonehenge and felt the power of the gathering of those great rocks. She had been awed by their size and the effort that it took to assemble such a majestic ring.

This achievement, however, felt wrong. This was not a temple to nature. It was a shout in nature’s face that she was not the queen here. Rome was a city ruled by men, for men. That was certain. These Romans might pray to their gods. They might say how deeply they worshipped their deities, yet in the end, Rome was built for one purpose—to glorify Rome’s very
human
accomplishments.

Despite her selfish excesses, people still flocked to the huge city. Syra studied the crushing mass entering the market. She had traveled far and wide, yet had never seen the assortment of cultures that were crowded into the tiny stalls. Every morsel of the marketplace was utilized to the fullest. Even the homes lining the market had their stoops shaded, and small booths graced the steps.

There was a dark-skinned man, even darker and more mysterious than the African horsemen that Caesar had used, selling ivory. Another woman with a silk veil sold crystal bottles of perfume. A man with eyes as narrow as slits offered aphrodisiacs to all who came near. Syra could not understand the attraction. Did these immigrants not have farms to tend? Who was plowing the fields if they were here begging?

Anger felt hot in her throat. No matter Brutus’ kind demeanor, he was still a Roman through and through. It was obvious that he felt these affronts to nature were some kind of progress. All Syra saw was a people deluded that they could rule over heaven and earth.

In her travels, she had seen enough ancient ruins to know that even the greatest fell. Despite his domineering conquests, Alexander the Great was still very much dead in the ground—the Greek’s heart feeding the earth once again. Alexander’s vast empire had cracked and crumbled just like his bones. These Romans may not know it, but one day that grand wall that seemed so impenetrable would fall with a resounding crash. Syra only wished she could be there to see it.

* * *

Brutus could sense Syra’s unease, but he could not coax out the meaning. Instead of following close at hand cooing over the varied goods, the Northerner hung back, keeping her distance. Brutus had thought Syra would enjoy seeing the heart of Rome. The thriving market drew the entire world to the city’s bosom.

Nowhere else in all the lands could one browse the immense variety that could be found in this hectare of marketplace. He could not even tempt a smile out of her with Persian perfume. Brutus did not know how to react. Every other woman he knew would have swooned if he had offered to buy such a gift. Lylith would have squealed like a baby pig and ordered three for herself and another for his mother.

And if Syra were not impressed this day, she never would be awed. For the entire Forum Holitorium was crammed with vendors to supply the Lupercalia. Pan was an audacious and rowdy god who demanded men purchase equally expansive offerings.

At least that was what the priests of Pan’s cult would have everyone think. Brutus felt that this festival had descended into the lowest form of social jostling. Amongst the elite, the offerings were weighed and judged. You could lose years of hard-won status over a single erroneous gift. While others, who hovered on the edge of propriety, could vault into an acclaimed position based on a lavish offering.

Brutus had refused to lower himself to this subterranean groveling. Instead he used this opportunity to offer his faith in a very different way. Although Pan held little of his heart, Brutus felt an affinity to all the old gods. He used this festival to honor private moments of gratitude. Therefore, he avoided the gold baubles and sweet-scented silk.