Love Is in the Air (37 page)

“How late am I?” Brutus asked, already knowing the answer.

“We were told to prepare Caesar’s chariot for departure.”

Brutus cringed. That meant the session was nearly over. His absence would be missed. Pompey’s supporters would most likely see this as a bold act of defiance aimed at Caesar. Antony and the rest of the Caesarians would seek his apology at such a breach. Each faction would try to use his tardiness to its advantage.

Once again, despite his best efforts, Brutus knew that he would be the center of more politicking. On a whim, he changed his route and strode to the back of the Curia and entered through the shadowed rear entrance.

He should not have been surprised by the sight. Brutus was still uncomfortable with Caesar’s remodeling of the Curia. Even after three months, the sight still caught him off guard. Julius sat upon a gilded throne, as if he were Jupiter himself. The engineers had to build a specially reinforced platform to hold the weight of the golden chair. The stage was high enough off the debating floor that Caesar looked much like a benevolent god watching his subjects play out their pitiful mortal games.

And today that assessment was not too far off of the mark. The entire purpose of this vote was not to enable emergency funding for aqueduct repair, or for relief of wounded veterans. No, they gathered for this special session of the Senate to confer yet more honors upon Caesar for his military victories. This one, in particular, stuck in Brutus’ craw.

The Venus Gentrix was considered the highest honor that Rome could bestow upon one of its heroes. The golden necklace was a tangible show of Venus’ affection. Yet all through history, it had been given only posthumously—usually decades, or even centuries, after the hero had died. But here today, this illustrious Republic was placing the gilded necklace upon a very-much-alive Caesar.

The vote must have already been taken, for Antony and Cicero, Brutus’ old mentor, were climbing the stairs to Caesar’s throne. Brutus was certain that not a single dissenting vote had been cast. Not that he blamed any of his fellow senators, though. With the public’s high affection for the general, Caesar was immune to the Senate’s distaste. Anyone who cast a “nay” vote this day would more than likely have been stoned for his effort.

The ceremony ground to an awkward halt as Cicero and Antony stood on either side of Caesar’s throne. The necklace was upon a velvet pillow, and each man had his hand on the goddess’ boon. By right, Cicero, the First Amongst Senators, should have had the honor of bestowing the necklace, but the young Antony looked like he might tear the bejeweled necklace right out of the older man’s hand. Cicero’s face blossomed red, and the veins on his forehead pulsed with a barely contained fury.

An almost-imperceptible nod from Caesar backed Antony off, but it was obvious that the motion was not meant to appease Cicero, but instead to let the older senator know that he survived only by Caesar’s good grace. The flustered orator had no words of glory as he placed Venus’, and therefore Rome’s, favor around Julius’ neck.

At first, there was only a scattering of claps until Antony added his own to the applause. Then, as if on cue, cheering and wild clapping followed. Brutus put his hands together slowly. He was not one to appreciate a show such as this.

They could barely hear Cicero as he closed the session and brought down the marble gavel. All of the senators rose, and the entire Curia waited on Caesar. No one, not even visiting kings, could stay seated when the Senate was adjourned. It was ancient protocol to rise and show your respect to the Senate. But to everyone’s surprise, the general simply sat there, soaking up the adoration as if he deserved every last sip of fame. Another heartbeat, and still the general did not rise.

Brutus could not believe the sight. Could Caesar truly be daring enough to insult the entire Senate? Would he breach the most sacred protocol? Cicero’s face blanched as the time stretched out. When the color returned, it was as if a beet had been smeared all over the senator’s face.

Before the renowned orator could form a retort, Antony bowed with great flair to Caesar, then exited the Curia. All of Caesar’s supporters followed suit, leaving the supporters of Pompey in a most awkward position. Cheering roared outside the Curia as Antony announced Caesar’s newest glory.

The question that crossed every Pompey supporter’s mind as they stood fast was evident. The mob outside was wild with delight at Caesar’s newest accomplishment. How would it look if they held their ground and did not join Antony out on the steps? Cassius must have reached the conclusion that protocol be damned. Obviously, the lean senator wished to keep his head for another day, for he crossed the Curia floor and exited. Soon the rest of Pompey’s beleaguered followers trailed after him, abandoning protocol.

Cicero still hung back. The orator glared into Caesar’s eyes, seeming to demand that the general come down off of his throne and adhere to the age-old tradition. But Julius simply watched Cicero with an amused expression. Finally, the older man broke eye contact and stormed out of the Curia.

Did Caesar not understand how deeply his callous action had wounded the old man? Cicero had little left in this new world other than his stature and pride. There had been a tentative truce between the supporters of Pompey and the Caesarians.

Brutus had striven to quiet his fellow supporters of Pompey to wait and see how Caesar carried himself. Now, all of their fears were being realized. Julius was full of himself—full enough to insult the entire Senate. He felt his heart sink, and the plebeian’s words rose to his mind.

“Nothing good will come of this. Nothing at all.”

* * *

Syra pushed herself deeper into the corner of the cart as it rumbled forward. The rest, even Navia, had risen to view firsthand their approach to Rome with a mixed sense of fear and awe. She wanted neither. She wished only that the dream would release her from its grip.

It seemed the nightmare grew tired of waiting for her to fall into slumber. Instead, it held her tightly, even fully awake. With each roll the cart took toward the center of the world, the bolder the dream became.

Remember
…

The whisper made the hairs at the back of her neck rise in a wave. Syra braced against the thick wood. There was nothing behind her. There could be nothing behind her. Yet a hand seemed to reach out of the void and rest upon her hip. She blinked twice. The sky was full and bright overhead, yet a blackness crept over her vision.

Remember
…

The dreams had wanted her to fight, so she fought. The dreams had wanted her to travel south, so she had struck south. The dreams had wanted her to find Rome, so she allowed the slavers to take her to Rome.

All that the dreams asked, she had answered, but how could she remember something that had never occurred?

Yet the dream insisted, forcing her vision dark and her pulse racing. Syra closed her eyes, but that action only intensified the dread.

How could her fingers feel the very carvings of a bone-handled dagger she was not actually holding? Worse, a pain settled over her heart. An anguish that a thousand tears could not wash away.

Syra feared the feeling would overwhelm her when the cart lurched forward. Thrown from the corner, her palms flew out to catch her fall. The splinters thankfully pulled her from the abyss.

“
Tía
, are you all right?” Navia asked as she sank to her knees beside Syra. Despite her bruised heart and painful palms, she could not help but grin at the term of endearment Navia used. It was Spanish for aunt. For family. But soon even this tentative bond would be broken.

Navia helped Syra to her feet. She meant to scold the young girl for straining herself, but found herself muted by the sight. Before their rumbling cart stood the tallest wall that she had ever seen. Her disdain could not lessen the shock Syra felt as she viewed Rome’s greatest defense. The towering stone wall stood far over two men’s height and was wide enough for centurions to patrol the top side by side.

Even from this distance she could see the soldiers’ distinct beaten-bronze armor and burgundy-crested helmets. They exuded confidence and strength. As far as Syra could see, the wall stretched out to the dusty horizons, and the surface was riddled with archers’ slits.

What could be so precious to need such stout walls? Syra let out a deep breath, not realizing she had been holding it. Earlier, she had been wrong about Rome’s size. What was dusty and dirty were the homes and farms outside the wall. More people poured in and out of this gate than Syra had ever seen in a single place. It was unnatural.

Syra had been to Edinburgh and Portia. Those had felt to be dangerously large cities, but this…. this Rome was beyond the scope of her experience.

“How is it that we move?” Syra asked. “I thought we could not enter until after sundown?”

Navia nodded toward the head of their train. “Rax bribed the guards. We are allowed to pull up into the front and be the first in this eve.”

Syra surveyed the long line of carts that they passed. Some of the drivers shook their fists in anger, but none challenged the gilded soldiers who accompanied their slave caravan.

“How could he afford such expense?”

“No supper, or did you not notice?” the old woman sneered.

At the mention of food, Syra’s stomach rumbled louder than the creaky wheels of the cart.

“And no breaking of the fast, either,” Navia rightfully noted.

The old woman spat on the packed dirt road. “And I am certain that Rax has promised them a percentage of the profits. No one is above corruption here. No one.”

It was not hunger that turned Syra’s belly this time, but knowing that the old woman spoke truth.

* * *

Brutus did not need a sundial to tell him that late afternoon was upon them. He had backed out of the Curia the same way he had entered, hoping to avoid the intrigue his fellow senators would be sure to whip up at Caesar’s latest impertinence. Brutus cared little for intrigue and inquisitions. His place was up the slope at the Temple of Saturn where he could rest his weary body and occupy his upset mind with soothing numbers.

Determined to reach his sanctuary upon Capitoline Hill, Brutus had not noticed the gathering throng. But after running into several pedestrians, his attention turned to the crowd at hand.

Was there a public trial at the Rostra? Brutus searched out the platform built around the infamous column. All along its length were prows of conquered ships. Their bronze keels reflected in the afternoon sun. The huge totem was another testament to Rome’s might. Many times judges would stand upon its podium and mete out justice to the public. But not this day.

The growing mass descended upon the Temple of Vesta. The entire Forum Square was packed with citizens, plebeians, and aristocrats. News must have spread regarding the stallion’s death, for it seemed that all of Rome had rushed to witness the sacred fire still burning with their own eyes.

Without his purple sash to give him berth, Brutus was reduced to nudging his way through the crowd. Which was just as well, for the crowd might turn to him as they did upon the Sacred Way if they knew a prestigious senator were amongst them.

Keeping his eyes averted, Brutus tried to skirt the crowd and head up the slope, but the crowd parted suddenly, leaving Brutus awkwardly exposed. The person responsible for the crowd’s deference strode forward. It was Symphia’s young assistant. Above her head she gently waved a white suffibulum. The thin material shone in the afternoon’s last rays of sunshine. There was no mistaking the mark of the Virgin. Brutus tried to duck back into the crowd, but his bright red sandals gave him away. The girl met his eyes, and he was committed to step forward.

The acolyte must have seen his clumsy attempt at retreat, for her tone was less than friendly. “You were coming to offer your sacrifice to the Temple?”

What could he say? All eyes were upon him. He could not fail the people in this. So despite his body’s urge to turn up the hill toward the Treasury, Brutus nodded humbly. The girl raised the suffibulum even higher and Brutus followed her to the Temple.

The girl was obviously an apprentice Virgin, for she bore the adoration well, whereas Brutus cringed as some in the crowd reached out to touch the fine material. Others kissed their fingertips and transferred the affection to the veil. Still others knelt and clasped their hands in prayer. Brutus had underestimated the effect of this morning’s tragedy. The people were not just concerned—they were near hysteria.

In Rome, this was not a good thing. Buildings fell and blood spilt in times like these.

Relief poured through Brutus when they crossed the threshold into the Temple of Vesta. All of the priestesses must have been called to duty, since the other five Virgins stood around the fire, chanting and praying to their most cherished goddess. The attendants were only letting a dozen citizens in at a time to view the sacred fire this day. A wise decision, since not ten years ago another mass pilgrimage such as this turned into a near riot, and the temple itself nearly burnt down.

Brutus could feel his temper and frustrations wane in this serene environment. The marble underfoot was cool, and the shade provided by the column-supported roof was a relief after his trek across the Forum. The sacred fire sparkled a bright blue that transcended into white at its tips.

The five Virgins fed the blaze a constant stream of kindling and herbs that sparked into tiny fires of their own. Normally, the Virgins rotated their duties so that a single Virgin would attend the fire throughout the day and night. In this crisis, however, they all attended. Their visits to the outlying temples and even their attendance to the royal palace were suspended this day—with the exception of Symphia, who was nowhere to be seen.

Cylista, the youngest of the anointed Virgins, beckoned Brutus to the far end of the temple. Leaving behind the young apprentice, Brutus joined the most junior Vestal.

Despite her youth, Cylista bore the full authority of the Virgins with ease and seemed perhaps the least flustered of the Vestals. The girl acted as if the entire Forum were not jammed with desperate followers or that Caesar himself was not beset with worry at the tragedy.