Love Is in the Air (40 page)

“Do not fret, Tiberius. I will see to him.”

The stable boy sighed with relief and ran back down the hallway without waiting for a formal dismissal. Brutus let Tiberius have his quick escape. Someone ought to be at ease in this house.

Entering his study, Brutus did not bother to acknowledge the older man sitting in his chair. Long ago, Cicero was Brutus’ tutor, but the older man never quite accepted that the role should have been left aside years past. The old consul still felt that he could debate Brutus into compliance.

“I am glad to see that you are still keeping abreast of the Empire’s status,” Cicero said as he sifted through Brutus’ papers. The reference to Brutus’ absence at this morning’s senatorial session none too well hidden.

“I was there,” Brutus stated simply.

“Then you know of Caesar’s betrayal!”

“I know of his arrogance.”

Cicero was like a cat upon a hobbled mouse. “It goes far beyond human arrogance! You have no idea the goings-on in the palace.”

“I know that—”

“Did you know that Caesar is submitting a bill that would allow him to marry as many women as he wished to sire male heirs?”

This did give Brutus pause. He had no idea Caesar was planning such a thing, and he knew that it showed on his face. Still, Caesar’s life was his own. What did such a thing matter to Brutus? “It is none of my concern.”

“You do not care that Cleopatra’s son would become heir to all of Rome?”

“Cicero, as always, you are prone to exaggeration.”

The older man sneered as he rose and crossed the room. “You saw his impertinence! Watch, within the fortnight, Julius will seek the crown. You may set your calendar by it.”

Cicero spoke with such conviction that Brutus found himself hard-pressed to argue. Caesar had been talking grandly of late. Julius did not hold the Republic in such high regard as Brutus. If they bent the constitution much more for the Imperator, it would shatter beyond recovery. Brutus was not foreign to these facts. He just had faith that Caesar would never cross that threshold.

In this moment, though, with Julius’ latest scheme fresh in his mind and Symphia’s warning words, Brutus worried if he were not overly optimistic.

“And you would seek to block this polygamous bill?” he asked.

Cicero snorted. “Why would I do that? Brutus, you must elongate your view.”

Not liking his old mentor’s tone, he lashed back. “My sight is long enough to know that you plot treason.”

“I plot your ascension to the throne!” Cicero shouted back, slamming his hand upon the mahogany desk.

Unconsciously, Brutus took a step back. “What do you speak?”

Cicero paced the room, obviously agitated by his own words. “Once Caesar has passed this bill, we can leverage him into acknowledging you as his firstborn. Brutus, you would be first in line for his inheritance.”

Brutus sat down upon the silk-covered settee. Cicero could not be serious. He had no ambition for a throne, and he said so. “I would decline.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Anger burned in Brutus’ throat. His old mentor had gone too far. “I have had enough of you and your opinions for one day, Cicero. Please find your own way out.”

“Brutus,” Cicero appealed in a much more subtle tone. “Just think on this overnight. Think of all that you could do with that power. You could restore the old order. Bring the Republic back to its glory. We all trust that you would strengthen the Senate and Assembly. There is not one of us who would oppose your ascension.”

Before Brutus could reply, Cicero exited the room. His sandals scuffed along the stone floor until Brutus shut the door behind him. How had he arrived at such a juncture? Brutus did not ask to be Caesar’s bastard, nor did he ask to be the champion of the Republic. Could no one else understand this?

In Rome these days, there was no gray area where one could take shelter. One either cast his die with Caesar, or plotted to betray the general. Brutus felt like the fulcrum in a grinder. If he tipped the wrong way, he would be ground under the Fates’ weight, just as wheat beneath a stone wheel.

* * *

Syra and Navia followed the cook into yet another room. The mansion was so large that she became certain she would become lost just emptying the chamber pot. The soft woman finally led them to a large bathing chamber.

“Normally, Lylith insists we servants use the commoners’ bath, but given your condition, I do not think Brutus would mind you two washing the fil… The dirt from your hair.”

This woman talked so casually about their master. Even calling him by his given name. Was it somehow a sign of disrespect?

Frowning, Syra searched the room for a fire or at least a coal pit, but there was none. Despite the lack of a source of heat, the water in the huge bath steamed thickly. Trying not to seem ignorant, Syra did not ask how this marvel was accomplished.

“How many slaves does this Brutus have?” Syra asked, as she helped Navia down onto a wooden slat bench.

“Brutus? None. The bulk of us bought our freedom long ago. Lylith, however, seems to delight in them. But if you do a good job, respect Brutus, and do not betray his trust, he will protect you.”

Syra had no intention of staying that long. Once she got Navia settled and learned the lay of the city, Syra planned to slip out and never come back. Rome’s siren call was already loud in her ear. There were plenty of opportunities for a woman with her skills, either as a hired sword or professional thief. She did not care which at this point. Anything to get her away from this senator who pretended to care for his servants.

Fiona wiped her hands on her blue apron. “I have dinner to make. You two get cleaned up.” The cook glanced over at the frail young woman on the bench. “It’s not common, but I will bring plates to your room if you wish to lie down.”

Syra gave a tight smile to the older woman. Perhaps if Syra had not spent her life hating all things Roman, she might have appreciated the cook’s kindness. But after all that had happened, Syra trusted no one. Fiona would most likely stab them in the back if given the chance. Her generosity was nothing more than a ruse—of this Syra was certain.

Navia’s fingers fumbled trying to undress.

“Here, let me help,” Syra said to the younger woman.

As the Northerner removed Navia’s clothes, she noticed that the younger woman’s stomach was no longer flat. The tiniest bulge made its presence known. Soon Navia’s condition would become obvious. Syra finished undressing the young Spaniard and helped the girl into the tub.

“Will you not join me?”

Shaking her head, Syra answered, “No. Those wounds of yours need to be cleansed. Sit back.”

“Can the water not be a bit warmer?” Navia asked tentatively.

Pouring water over the girl’s hair, Syra paused. Navia seemed oblivious to her own condition. The poor woman was still in shock from the loss of her husband.

Carefully rubbing a bar of soap into Navia’s tangled mat of hair, Syra answered. “No. It would not be safe.”

“Safe? My muscles want nothing more than to sit in a vat of steam.”

“Perhaps, but not in your condition.” Before Navia could question her, Syra explained slowly and deliberately so that the younger woman could absorb the news. “I fear that you are with child, Navia. In your weakened state, too-warm water could hurt your growing baby.”

Navia spun around to face Syra. “I could not be—” The younger woman stuttered, “It’s been almost three months since… since…” Navia placed a hand upon her tender abdomen. “Could it be?”

The girl looked up at Syra with tears brimming. Continuing to cleanse Navia’s hair, Syra nodded. “It is true, child.”

At first the young woman just sat there, staring out across the room to the northern window. Soon the tears came. Then the girl doubled over, sobbing so very hard that Syra feared Navia would harm herself. Still, the Northerner did not interrupt. The woman deserved a good cry. This child was a mixed blessing. Navia would have a part of her husband forever, but the baby would remind the girl of all that she had lost.

Letting Navia cry, Syra quietly scrubbed the younger woman’s blistered feet and picked the rope fibers from her chafed ankles.

Finally, once the girl was cried out and her hair brushed free of its knots, Syra helped Navia out of the tub. Taking a simple cotton toga down from the wall, Syra helped dress the younger woman in clean clothes. “Now get to bed. I will make sure that Fiona fetches you dinner.”

“Let me help with—”

Syra placed a hand on the girl’s bony wrist. “I cannot rest until I know you are tucked in, Navia. Please, if not for me, for your child.”

Suddenly, the younger woman launched herself at Syra. The Northern raised a hand to block the assault, but realized Navia only meant to embrace her. The girl wrapped her arms around Syra and buried her face into the Northerner’s own tangled hair.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Navia kept repeating until Syra gently pushed the girl back.

“To bed.”

This time Navia obeyed, leaving Syra alone in the bath. The Northerner found a strange lever and tentatively pulled it. Hot water bubbled up into the bath, causing the room to fill with steam. Syra smiled. She did not have to worry as Navia did.

Ripping off her soiled rags, Syra slipped into the tub. Her skin screamed from the shock of the water, but her body sagged to the bottom. Holding her breath, Syra dunked her head under the hot water and gasped as she came up.

Leaning back against the smooth tile, Syra looked around the room. It was simple, yet had elegance to it. Large windows were carved into the walls, giving the bather a view of both the stars above and the lush gardens below. Torches illuminated the thick jungle-like vegetation that seemed barely contained by the stone walls.

Closing her eyes, Syra let the hum of insects lull her into relaxation. With the hot water cocooning her and the air buzzing with the sounds of nature, Syra could almost believe she was back in her homeland.

* * *

Brutus rubbed his eyes and laid his quill down. The parchment under his hand blurred, and his nervous energy had just about run itself out. One could only spend so much time studiously avoiding that which you most wanted to think about.

To make matters worse, Brutus had two subjects that he had to fend off. The fate of the Empire strained his heart, but the redhead stirred his body. Did he not have enough problems that he had to bring them to his doorstep?

A faint smile rose when he thought of Lylith’s reaction to the fiery Northerner. Perhaps this was just the thing to send his wife off forever. They already had separate bedchambers. No, they lived in completely separate wings. They only saw one another when his wife forced her company upon him. Lylith had his title. Could she not be content with that?

Rising, Brutus stretched his legs. Horat was still not home. He would have to compensate his loyal servant for such an arduous task. Brutus himself would not wish to face down the daunting clerks at the Office of the Engineers. This redhead had best be worth the expense.

Brutus frowned. How could the Northerner be worth the expense when he did not even know why he had bought her? Horat was right. The bold woman could never pass for a handmaiden. Then what was her role in the household?

Chiding himself for his mental lapse, Brutus swore again not to think upon the woman until he had a night’s rest. He hoped his thoughts would clear in the morning. Rubbing his aching shoulders, Brutus left his study and made his way toward the bathing chamber. He could smell dinner cooking. The aroma was that of basted lamb with scallions. Fiona must have known his mood, for she cooked his most favorite meal. Perhaps a relaxing bath before eating would temper his foul mood.

Exiting the house via a side door, Brutus chose to take the garden route. He needed nature’s pleasant hum to soothe his constitution. Today had been most taxing. Brutus did not know which was worse—the Republic somehow depending on him to run yet another day, or the woman who churned his blood.

Opening the small door into the bathing house, Brutus stopped.

Syra stood with her back toward him, brushing her hair. He could not find words. It was not the breathtaking beauty of her alabaster skin, or the perfect curve of her buttocks that stalled his tongue. It was the crisscrossing of scars both large and small. The reddish markings were an elaborate spider web across her perfectly proportioned back. Barely containing an urge to run a comforting finger down one especially purple scar, Brutus tried to step out of the room, but Syra turned.

The woman had draped a gauze over her body, but it did little to hide her full form. Syra’s gaze was steady and unashamed. She seemed to dare him to make an issue of her nearly naked presence. Brutus felt himself blush under her stare. It was as if he himself were the one unclothed.

Trying to salvage some of his dignity, Brutus made an effort to sound like he was the master, and she the servant. “This is my private area. The common bathhouse is down the hill.”

Syra shrugged as she wrapped a linen dress around her waist. Brutus should have told her that the item was one of his, but he liked the idea of having his fabric next to her bare skin.

“Fiona said that you would not mind this evening if we used your bath. Obviously the cook was mistaken. The trespass will not occur again.”

Brutus felt like a pompous ass, but could hardly back down. At the same time, he needed her out of the room quickly, for he did not wish his growing arousal to be noticed. “I should hope not.”

The woman inclined her head ever so slightly, and Brutus felt sure this was Syra’s version of a bow. Then the Northerner turned to leave. As much as he wanted her to go, Brutus could not let the exchange end like this. “I will send my physician in the morning to look at those wounds.”

“If it pleases you, sire,” Syra said, even though it was obvious that pronouncing those words pained her. “Navia needs the attention more so.”

“He will tend to both of you.”

Did Syra think he would allow the injured to go untended? Brutus could only imagine what she thought of him, and for the most part he had proved her right this evening.