Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (16 page)

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.

“
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.