Love Is in the Air (42 page)

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Brutus asked from behind her.

Syra froze. This new master of hers had the worst sense of timing. Not wishing to expose her tear-streaked cheeks, Syra only nodded. Her heart was too full of pain to answer him properly.

“I bought it in Greece last year. The merchant said it was an original from the Northern lands. Did he speak the truth, or was it a ruse to drive up the price?”

Trying to keep her anguish from her voice, she answered. “Nay. It hails from Scotland.”

Syra could feel the air stir as Brutus came up alongside. Why did she take a quick breath every time his flesh wandered near? Why could she not hate him the way she should?

From the corner of her eye, Syra watched Brutus examine the sundial. She wished to remove her hand from the artifact, but a part of her could not. The wood was too real a reminder of her home. She could not yet let go.

“How can you be sure?” Brutus asked.

“The carving—”

Accidentally letting a sniffle through, Syra tried to deepen her voice. “It is done only by the Druids. No one else could bring such detail…” Syra let her voice trail off. She could say no more without betraying the wound on her soul.

“A Druid? Really?” Brutus’ finger traced the outline of the dial. “They call him the Green Man, do they not?”

Syra looked down at the dark figure. How could she explain her homeland’s god to a Roman? The Green Man was not a kind or friendly deity, but he promised life that sprang not from high atop a distant mountain, but from the earth itself. He did not need a temple or a sacrifice.

No, the Green Man needed only fertile ground and a bit of spring water to grace his subjects. There was all of this to tell and so much more, but Syra was certain that this cosmopolitan Roman would never understand such primitive urges.

“That is one of his names.”

Brutus smiled casually. “This truly is a fine piece. I hope the carver made as much from his work as the merchant said he did.”

Syra tensed, but did not voice her anger. Yet Brutus must have sensed her change in mood, for his face clouded.

“Is something wrong?”

“This homage was made by a priest, sir. Most likely as a symbol of protection for a relative.”

“Oh. It was meant to be an heirloom?”

Once again, Syra became frustrated with all of Rome. Could they not understand that items such as this were not possessions with a golden value? Could Brutus not see that this was as much a part of the family as one’s own soul? “Yes, it was meant to be kept at the hearth.”

“Perhaps they fell upon hard times or—”

Syra’s temper flared. “No one would have given this emblem voluntarily.”

Brutus’ tone quieted. “I am sorry. I did not know this piece had been plundered.” He touched her cheek and turned her face to look into his eyes. “I would not have bought it had I known.”

Just as quickly as her anger billowed, it blew out. While she gravely distrusted her Roman master, her heart believed the man. Syra found herself opening a bit of her pain to him.

“It was not meant to be a sundial. It is an emblem of protection. This…makes it seem…” She could not continue her explanation, as her throat constricted with unshed tears.

“I will rectify that.”

His hand fell away from her cheek, and Syra realized how warm and comforting it had been. She missed it already as he backed away a step.

“I am heading to the market.”

Syra bowed, realizing she was being dismissed.

Brutus took a single step toward the door, then turned back. “Would you like to accompany me?”

“I…” Syra stumbled over her answer as her hands flew up to her tousled hair. She had every reason to say no. She had every reason to stay as far away from this man as possible, yet her lips formed her acceptance. “If you wish. I only need a few moments to prepare.”

Brutus nodded. “The litter will be waiting.”

* * *

Dear gods, what had he been thinking? Brutus chided himself once again as he headed to his study. He had meant to slip out the back door and head to the market for his offering to the god, Pan. Tonight was the Lupercalia, a celebration to honor the Greek god of mischief.

With Horat summoned back to the Temple of Mars to fill out yet more acquisition forms, Brutus was forced to do his own shopping this afternoon. He had planned a very brief trip down the hill, but now the outing took on a far greater scope.

Brutus had much to do this day, and he had been determined to keep his head clear. Only with a crisp mind could he hope to sort out the mess that the Fates had dealt. Brutus had made a promise to himself and the great goddess Minerva that he would not lay eyes upon the Northerner until his heart was resolved toward Caesar. Yet here he was not half a day later, going to market with the blasted redhead.

But how could he leave the Northerner like that? Her pain was so sharp that Brutus felt his own eyes sting. Syra had much about her that drew his heart in deeper and deeper. Looking into her eyes for a single second had broken his resolve. His heart wavered, and his tongue had betrayed him. But what stories this slave could tell! He knew her soul’s breadth to be wider than any he had known.

Last evening, Brutus had hoped that this woman to be a temporary enigma—that his hunger at the slave market would be quenched after a good night’s sleep. How many times had he met a lovely woman, someone he had thought would fascinate him, only to have her utter a lone word that squashed any desire? Usually it took only a single course at dinner to make Brutus wish he were somewhere very far away. Yet every second he spent with this Northerner brought dozens of questions and the burning desire to discover the answers.

Since childhood, Brutus had carefully constructed his life to be plain and simple. Straightforward and predictable. A day ago he would have sworn on all that was holy that love would never affect his life. That physical desire would play no part in his decisions. Yet in the time that it took to inhale once, Minerva’s beloved logic was demolished by Venus’ passion.

* * *

Syra tugged even harder at her hair. A sharp pain preceded a large clump of hair coming out in the whale-tooth comb. What had she thought? Telling Brutus she would be only a moment? It would take her half a day to untangle her angry hair. To exasperate her even further, Fiona hurried in.

“Child, you must hurry! The markets close at sundown!”

Syra showed the cook the handful of hair she had pulled out.

Fiona chided her playfully. “You barbarians! Change into this, then we shall fix your hair.”

Syra could not believe what the cook offered. It was a gown that only women who were painted onto murals would wear. A garment for another woman, going to a far more prestigious outing than the market. Syra tried to shove the material back at Fiona, but the cook would have none of it.

“Dress!”

“I am dressed!”

“Brutus is a senator, Syra. No matter how you feel, at his rank, appearances must be kept up. It would not do for him to be seen with a…a…”

“A?” Syra asked, shame thick in her voice, fearing that the cook would pronounce the dreaded word,
slave
.

Fiona exhaled in frustration. “Such a scoundrel. Now put this on.”

This dress was for a fine lady, not one bound by chains just yesterday. “It is not mine, Fiona.”

The cook ignored her and tugged at the clasp of Syra’s wrinkled toga.

Syra’s voice trembled. “Brutus will be angered to see me in—”

“Shush, child. Lylith discarded it two winters ago before she even wore it. Brutus will be glad to have someone enjoy the craftsmanship he spent gold coins on.”

“This is not right,” Syra lamented.

Fiona took hold of both her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Listen to me. This household has had little joy since the war. Do not deprive us of this small extravagance.”

Navia entered, carrying a sash of the most brilliant green. The silk slid through the young girl’s fingers and fluttered to the floor, looking as if a thousand leaves had fallen onto the tile. Not wanting Navia to strain herself, Syra knelt over and picked up the fine material. It was softer than anything she had felt. The sash was cool to the touch, bringing gooseflesh along her arm. How could anyone weave such a fabric? Did the gods themselves sew the garment?

When Syra looked up, she found Fiona looking quite satisfied with herself. “Now will you get dressed?”

Still, she was reluctant to don such festive attire. Who was she to wear such clothing? Syra did not think she would know how to walk in such a dress. Syra preferred coarse wool and thick leather.

Navia touched her arm gently. “Please.”

“But—”

“Syra, you have done so much. Let me do this for you.”

She could not deny the younger girl’s request, and submitted to their ministrations—only giving a yip when Fiona took a tuck a bit too tight.

“I told Brutus I would only be a moment.”

Fiona waved off Syra’s concerns. “He is a man. He is used to waiting for women.”

Despite the cook’s reassurance, Syra felt her trepidation grow. She was not really a woman, was she? For her adult life, Syra had been a warrior—her womanhood hidden deep within the folds of her leather. She never revealed it to the world. Since her early adolescence, Syra had passed as a man. Her body was accustomed to being bound and controlled. Not loose and flowing as this dress. Is this how women the world over felt? Is this how Syra wanted to feel?

Navia cajoled the Northerner’s wild mane, while the cook made sure each of the gown’s folds fell perfectly. Finally, the other women backed away, seeming content.

Syra squirmed under their scrutiny. “Well?”

Navia beamed with a pride that made her sallow cheeks pink. “You shall eclipse the sun, Syra.”

“I am presentable, then?”

“Aye,” Fiona said appreciatively, then scooted Syra to the door. “Go! You must not keep him waiting
too
long.”

* * *

Brutus might have been vexed any other time. He had sat out upon the hot bench for what seemed like an hour—an hour that he might have been working on his wheat tallies. By Mercury, he could have gone to the market and been back by now.

Why then, did he wait? And why was he not upset with Syra? If this were Lylith… Well, there was no point in extrapolating. He never would have waited a single minute for his wife.

But the sun dipped dangerously close to the horizon. If Syra did not appear soon, he would be forced to go to the market by himself. And suddenly that no longer appealed to him. Solitude had always been his solace. There was no greater company to him than silence. Yet today, he wished nothing more than to hear Syra’s husky voice.

Rising to pace again, Brutus stopped halfway as Syra entered. It was as if Helen descended from Troy. If it were not for her fiery red hair and brilliant green eyes, Brutus might not have recognized his recently purchased slave. The gown was the color of softly sifted cinnamon, while the sash that covered one shoulder was the color of an emerald held up to the sun’s rays. Her flowing locks were swept up off of her neck into a cascading tower of curls. Syra’s wild hair was artfully constrained by the finest gold braid.

The Northerner had no need for the layers of powders that his wife usually favored. Syra’s cheeks had a blush of their own, her lips a natural, deep red. It was hard to imagine that just yesterday the woman was encrusted with mud and covered in rags. Dressed such as this, Syra could easily enter a palace feast and have a dozen suitors press down upon her.

“Is it not to your standard?” Syra asked.

Brutus stumbled over his answer. Up to his standard? He did not even know that a woman could look so radiant. Syra had far surpassed any expectation he had ever had. But he could not find the words to articulate his amazement.

“Shall I change?”

“No.” Brutus might have been tongue-tied, but he was quite emphatic on that point. Trying to cover his embarrassment, he motioned toward the litter. “We had best be going.”

Syra hung back, however. “Might we walk? My legs would like to feel solid ground beneath them.”

And what lovely legs they were
, Brutus thought, but kept his tongue from straying. Once again, he could think of nothing intelligible to speak, so he simply walked down the path, hoping that Syra followed. They were far down the Hill where the residential path emptied into the Sacred Way before Brutus’ heart began beating at a normal pace. Syra’s presence was like a beacon on a stormy night. It took another few moments before he finally regained the use of his tongue.

“How does Rome compare in the day?”

Syra sounded a bit overwhelmed. “Busier.”

Brutus was so used to the bustling crowds that he had not even thought that the pressing traffic might bother the Northerner.

“Here,” Brutus said as he extended his arm to her.

Syra looked at his elbow, but did not take it. Letting his arm fall to the side, Brutus tried to act reserved, for he was far more disappointed than he had any right to be.

Covering the awkward silence that descended, Brutus spoke. “Romulus has gathered together quite a city, has he not?”

“One man built all of this?” Syra asked, with a hint of awe.

“Nay. Rome was not built in a day.” Brutus could not help but chuckle. “All of this has taken over six hundred years to mold, and if it weren’t for a few geese, it might never have formed.”

Brutus watched as she gazed over the width and breadth of the city. For a woman whose posture spoke of world travels, her eyes sparkled with a naïveté that the senator found more attractive than a thousand painted courtesans.

As they continued down the Sacred Way, Syra asked, “Geese?”

Brutus pointed to the hill beyond the spiral of smoke that rose from the Vestals’ fire. “See that peak?” He continued once Syra’s eyes focused on the distant hill. “It is the Arx. One of its temples is named Juno Moneta.”

Syra’s head tilted, questioning. “She who warns?”

“Aye. When Rome was nothing but a flicker of Romulus’ imagination, enemy forces surrounded him. He and his people took shelter in a small fort they had built upon that high ground. They rested in preparation for the next morning’s battle.”