Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity (38 page)

“
Julius,” Marc intoned gently, rousing the general from a light sleep.

“
Antony?” Caesar asked, as if uncertain of the face before him. “Ah, and Brutus. You have come to bring me to my senses?”

The younger Roman smiled widely. “Aye. The whole of Rome is awaiting your coronation. We cannot disappoint Venus herself, can we?”

“
Suprinna has Calpurnia in quite a state. The priest’s sacrifices have been quite unfavorable as well.”

“
A few spilt guts cannot sway a man such as you, my liege. One is a woman and one is a panderer. They cannot order the great Caesar about.”

Julius sighed heavily. “I fear it is my body that betrays me this day.”

Antony went down on a knee to be level with his general. “I will personally sweep you back after the ceremony. The Ides will be remembered as the first day of a new Rome. A stronger Rome. A Rome that will finally defeat Parthia.”

Caesar smiled, but it seemed to lack warmth. “And you, Brutus? You wish me to claim the crown this day as well?”

Even though he had been bracing himself the entire way over, Brutus found that his throat tightened. “Your destiny awaits you at the Forum, Caesar. And none of us can avoid her call.”

“
Well said. If even scholarly Brutus wishes my presence, who am I to decline? Antony, help me up.”

The younger Roman was at Caesar’s elbow before the general’s words were even out of his mouth. Marc nodded to Brutus.

“
Go ahead to the Forum. Have them prepare for the coronation. We will be along in a few minutes.”

Caesar agreed. “Tell them we will change the omens this day. The Fates will be thwarted.”

Brutus could only nod in response. Mortals. They had no idea that Fate was a great wheel that ground each of them under her enormous stony weight. There was no avoiding her, only bowing one’s head in acceptance.

* * *

Syra breathed out in relief. Brutus exited the palace and headed back to the Forum. By the set of his shoulders, she could tell his mission was successful. Silently, Syra nodded to Horat. They had best hurry back, before Brutus discovered their ruse. But before they had taken a few steps, Horat stopped her with a tap on the arm.

Looking over, Syra realized that Brutus had paused and was speaking with someone who was obscured by a building. Slinking along the alleyway, Syra came up from behind to overhear the conversation. Brutus’ voice was filled with so much anger that Syra’s hand went to her sword. Whoever so enraged Brutus would regret it quickly.

“
Do not think to order me, Virgin,” he said.

Syra risked a glance around the building. A woman draped in white silk held her ground in front of the angered Brutus. Creeping forward in the shadow of an awning, Syra positioned herself in case her sword was needed.

“
None are safe until Caesar falls,” the old woman hissed.

Brutus stepped forward. Even from several feet away, Syra could feel the heat of his presence. How the Virgin could look upon him and not realize that the Brutus of old was gone.

In his stead stood a chiseled warrior. Muscles in his jaw rippled with anger and frustration. Syra slunk along the wall, keeping to the scant midday shadows. Not in fear for Brutus, but for the Virgin.

“
You overstep your bounds, Symphia. Go back to your Temple—”

“
The gods have—”

Brutus towered over the shriveled woman. “The gods know nothing of you, Virgin. They think not of you. They speak not to you. You hold none of their authority.”

The Virgin took a step back as her attendants came forward. “I—”

“
Go back to your hearth, old woman.” There was no arguing with Brutus’ tone. The Virgin sputtered a moment, then turned on her heel, leaving Brutus standing alone in the road.

He did not even glance toward Syra, but he spoke to her, nonetheless. “You have grown sloppy.”

Rising from the stoop, Syra dusted off her breeches. “It was not you I was hiding from.”

Syra watched as Brutus strode off toward the Forum. She wished to trot after him and help soothe his soul, but it was a useless endeavor. Nothing short of divine intervention could lessen his burden. Syra looked up at the harsh sun. Apollo seemed unwilling to intercede, so she motioned for Horat to join her.

A cheer went up from the crowd surrounding the Forum as Brutus made his entrance to announce that Caesar would be arriving within the hour. A near riotous din rose from the mob. It seemed that the Fates were becoming impatient for their will to be done.

* * *

Brutus stood perfectly still as Antony arrived. Caesar was only a few steps behind, and each basked in the adoration of the crowd. Suprinna appeared out of thin air and was at Julius’ arm. Fear gripped Brutus’ throat. What manner of intrusion was this? Had Horat been correct? Was Suprinna a member of the Dark?

But Caesar only laughed at his sage. “The Ides have come, Fool, and without bringing me an ounce of harm.”

The old man bowed his head to the general, but the whole while he stared straight at Brutus. “The Ides have in truth come, but they have not yet gone.”

To Brutus’ relief, Caesar shrugged the blind man’s words off and continued talking with Longius. Brutus felt the slender blade within his toga. Would he have the mettle to carry out this action? Caesar’s face was still pale underneath Calpurnia’s makeup. The general’s hands trembled even as he shook Trebonius’ arm. All was going according to plan. Trebonius spoke to Antony, engaging him in debate over the attack on Parthia, while Caesar entered the Curia proper.

Taking a deep breath, Brutus nodded as the general acknowledged him on his climb up to his throne. Just that small gesture made Brutus’ heart ache. For all his faults, Caesar trusted him. It was clear in his eyes. There was no fear or suspicion. Brutus had done an excellent job of engendering confidence. But Brutus was beyond the concerns of men. He acted for the Fates now.

* * *

Syra watched from their hiding place in the hallway as Trebonius delayed Antony at the door. Horat named the man who approached Caesar’s dais. Tillius, one of the conspirators, looked nervous as he hesitated at the first step. Syra willed the man to climb the stairs. It was he who was to strike the first blow.

Tension caused Syra’s stomach to tie itself in knots, like the ropes that secured a ship to the dock. Could they not just kill the man? Why all of this finesse? With a single arrow she could end this charade. But she held her anxiety in check. History seldom liked simple answers.

Finally, Tillius petitioned Caesar. The general gave him permission to climb the stairs, but a commotion at the back of the Curia drew everyone’s attention.

“
Oh, dear gods, not Artemidorus,” Horat hissed.

Once more she cursed her late Awakening. What could this flabby senator be doing? “What does he hope to accomplish?”

The servant spat. “He threw his lot in with the conspirators months ago, but he looks to warn Caesar now.”

Syra left their hiding place and sprinted down the hallway while all eyes went to the back of the Curia. Several other centurions converged on the disturbance, but she had to be the first to arrive. Luckily, several other senators were forcing the shouting Artemidorus up the steps into the back of the Curia. Syra came up behind the obese man and placed the point of her sword in his back.

“
You will be leaving now.”

“
But Caesar. He is in danger.”

“
There is no doubt of that.”

* * *

Caesar looked at Brutus. “What was that about?”

“
Artemidorus is drunk again.”

The general shrugged off the outburst. It was not the first time the wine-loving senator had broken protocol, but Brutus knew the truth. Artemidorus had meant to betray the assassination.

In some ways Brutus wished that the pudgy man had intervened, but he could see that the senator was being escorted from the Curia. Caesar’s last line of defense was broken.

With great pain, Brutus nodded to Tillius to climb the stairs. The nervous senator took a hesitant step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus watched as the other conspirators came forward. Cassius and Cicero moved near the front. They looked like rabid dogs eyeing their first victim. How Brutus hated being associated with them.

Brutus braced himself as Tillius lunged forward and grabbed Caesar’s robe, exposing his neck. Every muscle in Brutus’ body screamed to protect the general, but instead, Brutus held his place as Caesar threw another conspirator off the throne. Perhaps Julius had more life left in him than anyone thought.

From the other side of the Curia Antony shouted, but it was too late. Cassius was already up the steps and slashed Caesar’s face. Brutus cringed as blood sprayed from the wound onto his toga. There was no going back as the other senators piled atop the flailing general.

Caesar was done for. This pack would never let him rise again. Taking his own dagger out, Brutus crossed the platform. He had meant to stab straight and true to the heart, but when he saw Julius’ desperate face, Brutus faltered and only wounded him in the thigh.

“
You too, my child?” Caesar cried out in Greek as he gripped Brutus’ hand.

The terror drained from the general’s face as the blood poured from his body. Julius sank into death as Brutus held him in his arms. He would have held Caesar until the sun set, but Antony charged forward, knocking Brutus away with a back-handed blow.

“
Fatherless dog!”

Brutus did not retaliate against Antony’s insult as he sank to the floor, slick with his friend’s blood.

* * *

Syra watched Brutus drop to his knees beside Caesar as Romulus’ dagger clattered to the floor. The life seemed to pour from her lover as it did the dying Caesar.

Fear clutched her chest. Now that the Crux was resolved, Brutus would have little regard for his own well-being, and the Curia had descended into chaos. White robes fled in every direction.

Shoving Artemidorus aside, Syra raced down the hallway, knocking senators over in the process. By the time she reached the stage, the other conspirators had fled, with the exception of Cicero. Who, Syra noted, had not bloodied his hands. The orator tried to calm the crowd, but with the pool of blood ever expanding and Antony’s shouted orders, there was no placating the mob.

Brutus was the last of the assassins on the platform. Syra strode over and grabbed the bloody senator by the arm and tried to yank him to his feet.

Antony turned, thinking she was a centurion. “Get him out of my sight! Place him under house arrest.”

Cicero fussed behind them, but Syra heard not a word. She needed to get Brutus away from this place before vengeance became the topic. Using both hands, Syra jerked Brutus up and onto his feet. He felt leaden under her pull. His toga was splattered in bright red blood, his hands dripping with the sticky liquid.

Grabbing the bone-handled dagger, Syra led him away from the stage. Horat was there to lend a hand. They were through the secret door before the real centurions discovered their deceit.

Brutus finally dug in a heel. “Nay. I should stay with Cicero. Try to make them listen.”

Urging her love to move forward, Syra answered. “They have broken up, Brutus. None will listen.”

“
But—”

Horat interrupted. “She is right. No good can be done here. We must leave the city and rendezvous with Cassius.”

“
Cassius?” Brutus’ voice was clearly shocked.

The servant bowed his head in apology. “There was little time to explain the all. Cassius also feared the others would not listen. He has assembled an army outside Rome in your name.”

Syra felt Brutus lean against her as they made their way up the darkened tunnel. To do that which is most foreign to you could strip away centuries of hardening. Even The Fated could feel the pangs of guilt.

* * *

Fleeing Rome was nothing more than a blur to Brutus. They were upon a boat heading down the Tiber before he gained his wits about him. Looking down, he found his toga had dried, and the blood’s color fading to a dirty brown. He felt the coward for running from the Curia, but Horat had been right. Antony was clearly in command. If Brutus did not provide a distraction, Marc would grab all of the power for himself. It would take a common enemy to unite him with Octavius. And once again, Brutus would have to act the stooge.

Syra was at the back of the ship, looking out over the water, making sure that no one followed. Horat was at the front, steering their modest ship. The sails were half full, lazily flapping in the gentle breeze.

Leaning back against the bulkhead, Brutus wished for nothing more than to fade into the starry night. To just dissolve into the tapestry of history like any other common thread. Why were they always the linchpin? Could they not have a single life together without the Crux? Brutus would trade a hundred rebirths for a single, simple life. But that was not to be.