Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (141 page)

The seer sat apart from the rest, looking out a domed window. What could the old man see with his clouded eyes that Brutus could not?

Did the seer have clarity of vision that Brutus did not possess? Would the world turn on its ear tomorrow? Or would a group of senators be accused of high treason? Brutus wished he had even an inkling of why history had forced him into such a precarious position.

If anything, Brutus’ pity for Caesar had grown through the night. Yet even this feeling complicated his decision. It was hard to imagine that this frail old man would survive the journey to Parthia, let alone prevail in the war. And what if Caesar lost at Parthia? What if the Romans finally stirred their enemy to invade Rome? Without Caesar, Brutus doubted if the great city could survive such an attack while still grieving their downed hero.

None of these thoughts helped lighten Brutus’ heart. He was damned if he revealed the conspiracy, and doubly damned if he joined in the assassination. As much as Brutus tried to ignore the others, Maximus, the governor from Spain, was quite loud. It seemed he wanted to assert his stature over the other Romans with his volume alone.

“
You must have thought of such things, Brutus.”

He had no idea what the loud man had asked of him, so he dodged the question. “I am afraid not.”

Maximus turned to the general. “Tell me, then, Caesar. What type of death is best?”

Brutus stiffened as Julius’ eyes cleared. The general’s voice lost its slur as he answered. “One most unexpected.”

The words struck at Brutus’ heart. It felt as though Caesar had just given him permission to commit the foul act tomorrow.

Looking at the slack-jawed general, Brutus saw a man ready to die. Looking over at the window, Brutus met Suprinna’s gaze. The seer’s eyes were unblinking for several heartbeats. Brutus was transfixed until the old man gave the slightest nod, then went back to his window gazing. Brutus sat perfectly still as the conversation continued on around him. It was as if the Fates’ icy hands had just brushed his skin.

Suprinna suddenly stood upright, as if a bolt of lightning had hit his chair. All eyes swung around to the seer.

The old man spoke to no one in particular. “Beware the Ides of March.”

Brutus was not certain if the words were meant for Caesar or himself.

* * *

Syra’s arms screamed in protest as she fought the treacherous current. Near the bank, the water sought to crush her against the steep bank. The dingy was not far behind as the sun dipped behind the hills. She did not know how much longer she could stay afloat. Each time she tried to climb the slick mud, she was swept away by the churning water.

Nausea rolled over her like the waves tousling her hair. Her sight blurred. A vision threatened at the edge of her vision.
No, not now, not here
, Syra begged the gods, but they were deaf.

Gone were the angry waters of the Tiber. They were replaced by the Nile’s calm flow. Its blue color glistened under the hot sun.

The hanging gardens of Babylon stretched out green and inviting.

Alexander the Great thrashed in death throes upon his bed. The vision threatened to drown her as surely as the water that pulled her under with every passing moment.

“
Grab hold!” a voice shouted from the top of the shore. A rope dangled up the bank a foot. The voice broke the spell of the vision, and Syra spit out a mouthful of water.

“
The rope!”

Syra tried to see who might be calling to her, but a cluster of trees blocked her view. Feeling herself slip once again, Syra dragged herself up the muddy bank. Using the last of her reserves, she scaled the last foot and grabbed the rope. Someone pulled while she scrambled up the slippery mud.

Angry shouts arose behind her as the sailors realized she was making good her escape. Syra spared a glance to see the men put their backs into the oars. They would be upon her in another moment.

At this most critical time, the rope stopped pulling, leaving Syra dangling halfway up the cliff-like embankment. Using the rope as leverage, she tried to climb the rest of the way, but the shore was too steep and the mud too wet. Syra could not find the purchase necessary.

Suddenly something whizzed overhead. Lying flat against the mud, Syra cursed. The sound was unmistakable. Arrows flew overhead. Dear gods, could it get any worse? Exposed on the bank, there was nothing she could do but brace herself for another volley.

But it never came. Risking a glance, Syra found that the assault had come from the shore and was aimed toward the skiff.

One sailor had taken a shot in the arm, while the boat was pelted with arrows. The men raised angry fists in the air, but backed the dingy from the shore.

With renewed hope, Syra climbed again. This time, the rope pulled along with her. Using the last of her energy, she pushed to the top of the bank.

“
Here!” a voice shouted again.

Just as Syra was about to slide back down, a hand grasped her forearm. With the unseen stranger’s help, Syra finally crested the bank and stumbled forward.

“
Syra?” the voice asked.

“
I am not certain,” was her reply.

The world was still a blur, along with her own identity. Coughing up dirty river water, Syra fell to her knees. If only she could rid herself of these blasted visions as easily. The world threatened to shift again as her stomach churned.

“
You should not fight it,” the familiar voice said, as Syra wretched again.

That is what the golden-crested man had said in the thick jungle kingdom. But how could she not? It was as if she were still drowning in the river. Her thoughts muddled as if she were trying to look through a swirling pool of water.

Looking up, Syra found the hag bent over her. What did this old woman know about Syra’s own soul that she did not?

“
Who am I?” she asked.

The hag shook her head. “That you must tell me.”

Syra wished to scold the woman for her evasion, but another rolling wave of nausea claimed her. This time the world appeared to be a huge jungle. Thick and steamy.

“
Syra?” the hag asked.

The old woman’s voice brought her back to the damp shore. With each snatch of vision, Syra could feel her head fill with rich memories.

“
I was once named Zi?”

Relief swept over the old woman’s face, smoothing over the thick wrinkles. “Aye. Then you know who I am?”

When Syra shook her head, the hag’s face was covered with concern again. “You still do not remember?”

Oh, she remembered much, but nothing she could put into words. It was as if she had been picked up by her heels and shaken violently. All of her innards were stirred around and had not yet settled into place.

“
If you know of this, tell me,” Syra begged, as her stomach threatened to lose itself again.

“
Oh, poor child, I have done too much already,” the hag cooed as she pulled Syra’s wet hair back from her face. “The rest you must discover on your own.”

Looking at the old woman’s steel-gray eyes, Syra felt a glint of recognition. The small nose. The high forehead. The crooked grin. Syra had seen this face in one of her visions. The hag was the woman at the Temple of Hephaistos.

“
You were with Romulus,” Syra said, as the choking subsided.

“
Nay, that was one of my ancestors.”

Syra looked deeply into the hag’s eyes. They were so similar. She could remember their fearful glint back in the torchlight.

With this memory so strong in her mind, a name formed on her lips. “Mirta?”

The old woman’s face pinched a bit. “Mirta?”

“
Aye. That is your name, is it not?” Memories flowed into her consciousness, but Syra could not trust them.

“
It… It has been several generations since you have graced us. I… We had thought it pronounced Marta.”

Syra shook her head. The memory felt right and strong. Perhaps even more acute than the sight of Scotland’s docks. Even though she should not be, Syra was certain of the pronunciation.

“
Nay. It is Mirta.”

She could remember so much of a woman who had not lived for over seven hundred years. Was her mind being lost to the gods?

“
How do I know this?” Syra asked as the hag helped her to her feet.

“
I am here to protect you, my lady, but you must remember on your own.”

Protect? At the thought of the word, Syra’s mind tumbled into memory again. She was back at the Temple of Hephaistos with Romulus’ blood thick on her hands. Rising, she took the dagger that had doomed her lover and attacked the priest. He was gutted in a shorter time than it took for her to shout her revenge.

“
Behind you!” a warning rang out against the rock walls.

Syra spun to meet her next attacker. Several of their honored guests had become solid enemies. She hacked at the man, but he had the advantage of a broadsword. Back against the granite wall, Syra was cornered until the flash of a blade cleaved the arm off of her attacker. The limb and sword crashed to the ground. Standing in his stead was Mirta. The old woman held out a hand.

Mirta’s face was a grim smile. “That is why you never outlive your Guardian, Zi. You must let me protect you.”

As she clasped the woman’s hand, Syra felt herself sucked back to the present time. She looked at the hag again.

“
You are my Guardian?” she asked, not quite understanding the term.

Mirta’s face brightened. “Aye. I am your Guardian, as was my mother, and grandmother, and grandmother before that.”

Guardian? Syra felt she should know the term like she knew her own name, but it was buried with a thousand other memories. She fought to stay in the present, but the past kept tugging her back, showing her images that were real but unfamiliar.

Syra had to struggle to stay on her feet. “We must get away from the bank. It is still not safe here.”

She tried to stand on her own, but her legs refused to obey.

“
Sit,” the hag demanded. Syra tried to resist, but Mirta would have none of it. “You are weak from exhaustion and hunger. Sit.”

Syra might have refused, but her limbs were useless as she slumped to the ground. Mirta busied herself gathering food as Syra tried to keep her head from cracking open. The old woman handed her a piece of hard bread, and Syra dove into it hungrily.

The brief moment of quiet was lanced by pain in her left eye. Doubled over, Syra again tried to regain her balance. But the human skull was not meant to hold hundreds of lives, each competing for prominence. How could she remember so much but understand so little? Syra could explain Mirta’s life better than she could her own.

Moaning through the ache in her belly, she asked, “Who am I?”

The old woman looked startled that Syra had asked such a question.

“
Why, you are The Fated.”

* * *

Brutus felt relief wash over his shoulders as he walked into his study. He had broken away from the dinner at the earliest convenience. No one else seemed shaken by the seer’s words except for Brutus.

Even Caesar scoffed at the old man as if Suprinna were nothing but a fool. Did no one else realize the grave danger the general was in? Who else around the table had heard whispers of the fatal conspiracy and did not speak up? If even Tillius was involved, Caesar’s stalwart defender, anyone could be ensnared as well.

Sitting down heavily in his chair, Brutus hung his head. Partly out of exhaustion, but also shame. There was so much at stake for Rome, for himself. Yet his mind replayed the image of Syra’s face when he had falsely called her a slave. Stabbing Caesar could not feel much worse.

“
Master, you have arrived,” a very relieved Horat said as he entered the study.

With all that had happened in the past few days, Brutus wanted no company. Even that of a man who had brought him home from the orphanage.

“
Aye, Horat. It is late. Get yourself to bed.”

“
Syra has not returned home yet. Did you send her off on an errand?”

Brutus felt his stomach sicken to hear her name. If only there were such a simple explanation for her disappearance. As close as Brutus was to Horat, he did not wish to relive those moments again. “She has left Rome.”

The servant seemed to take the information harder than even Brutus, for Horat sank down into a chair. His face looked suddenly old, as if the news had drained a decade from him.

“
She could not,” Horat said.

Brutus desperately wished for this conversation to be over. “She is. Lylith will not be returning as well. Pack all of her belongings and send them to my mother’s.”

Horat seemed to hear nothing of Brutus’ orders. Instead, he harped on Syra. “If Lylith is gone, then why did you send Syra away?”

Pounding his fist upon the table, Brutus could not hold his temper in check any longer. “I did not! She ran. Is that what you wish to hear? I called her a slave in front of all of Rome, and she fled the city.”