Love Is in the Air (49 page)

Yet this day, Brutus found his desk cleared. The treasury was behind in minting Caesar’s new coins. A boat had taken on water in Alexandria, which delayed a crucial leather shipment. His scribe had taken ill with a stomachache.

For the first time in over a week, Brutus was able to stroll out of the Temple of Saturn during the daylight. He had intended to strike out toward home, but he had heard the lilting voices of the actors and felt the need to sit for a while. It had been long since he had indulged in his favorite pastime. And these plays were becoming a thing of the past, much like democracy.

The new Rome eschewed Greek moral plays. The populace was now flocking to rowdy new farces, full of sex and mockery. Brutus could not tolerate these wild romps that relied on suggestive puppets and scandalous dialogue. No, he preferred the classics. Perhaps if Caesar watched
Oedipus
or
Ulysses
a few more times, this tragic course he had plotted Rome upon would change. Despite Caesar’s quest for the crown, Brutus still hoped the general would awaken one morning and realize that Rome could take no more turmoil.

A shadow crossed Brutus’ view, causing him to look up. There he found Suprinna gazing down at him with milky eyes. “You have not remembered?”

Brutus raised an arm to guard against the glare of the noonday sun. He indulged Caesar’s lunatic seer. “Nay. I have not.”

“Then you shall die, along with the rest of us.”

Distracted by the Greek chorus wailing as Oedipus blinded himself, Brutus looked back to find Suprinna gone. The only thing left in his wake was the small dart that had killed the Virgin’s stallion. Brutus turned the point over in his hand.

How had the seer obtained this piece of evidence? Antony was constantly boasting of his investigative prowess. Supposedly, the arrogant Roman appeared on the verge of discovering the perpetrator of this heinous crime. Yet here sat the single most important clue, now back in Brutus’ hand.

The scattered crowd clapped heartily at the conclusion of the play, yet Brutus stayed firmly in his seat. He disliked this intrigue. It was not his to solve, yet he could not help but remember the stallion’s blood flowing down the dusty street. The sight had haunted his dreams these past weeks. Many times Brutus had thought to inquire about the investigation, but he had not wished to stir more turmoil between himself and Antony. Therefore, he had stayed his hand. Now, his curiosity was piqued.

Unfortunately, the person he would need to speak with was the one citizen he least liked in this city—Marc Antony. The younger man hid something, Brutus felt certain.

Looking around, he found the theater empty. There was no excuse to delay this discussion any further. And he knew just where Antony might be. With the chariot races in town, Marc would be officiating and generally basking in the people’s adoration rather than expending his energies solving the crime that had been put into his care.

Rising, Brutus climbed down the steps and exited the small theater. Suprinna was right on one account. Someday it might be Brutus’ own blood to be spilt for all to see.

* * *

Syra followed the other women, feeling dazed. The only thing that felt real was the rock she turned over in her hand. Memories edged so close to her vision that she felt if she just squinted a bit, this little mystery would come into focus. Where had she seen the symbol before? And why did she feel it vital to remember? Syra could not shake the nagging feeling that Brutus was the key.

This old hag stirred her belly each time they met. Fragile memories became more fully fleshed, and feelings Syra thought long dead gasped back to life. It was most disconcerting. She had thought she had left her home long ago, never to be seen again, yet in this distant world, around every corner, she caught a brief glimpse of her beloved land.

The others, unaware of her internal distress, laughed and joked as they made their way back through the market. There was no more shopping to be done. They simply could carry no more. Tiberius looked as though he had lost an inch of height under all the weight he carried. It would be a long walk home this afternoon.

“I hear the races begin soon,” Navia said, winking at Tiberius.

Syra respected Navia’s and Tiberius’ persistence, but with Lylith’s return imminent, they had much to do. It seemed that all-new linens had to be purchased before their mistress’ arrival. Brutus’ absentee wife abhorred sheets and towels that had been washed more than once.

“You sound as bad as the boy, Navia,” Fiona scolded halfheartedly.

“You’ve heard his stories, Fiona. Think of the starting horn and the thunder of hooves. Would it not be nice to take a break from all toil?”

“Child, these things are just loud and someone usually gets hurt,” Fiona said, but her tone seemed less foreboding than her words.

While Syra’s interest was now piqued, she knew there was no way they could attend the races. What would they do with all of these packages? They could not sit in the stands burdened with enough silk to strangle one of Caesar’s infamous elephants.

“Might Brutus be attending?” Navia asked, with hope clear in her voice. It seemed the girl had developed a bit of affection for their master.

“Nay. He has no patience for such things. These races are for common people.”

“Like us?” Navia asked playfully.

Fiona did not answer. Instead, she called a merchant over. Why? They truly needed nothing else. But after a few moments of negotiation, Fiona handed over her packages and urged the others to do the same, even Tiberius.

“I do not understand,” Syra stated.

Fiona, as always, just laughed at her naïveté. “This kind merchant will deliver the wares to the house for a certain price, of course. But this will free us to visit the Circus.”

Navia’s spirits clearly soared at the notion. The girl had taken a liking to the sport ever since Tiberius had come home one night and relayed the entire glorious day for their benefit. Syra was not so certain. Sitting astride a horse was never a sport for her. It was survival. These games were ridiculous beyond measure. Grown men playing at being heroes. Did these Romans have no shame?

Apparently not, since Tiberius tugged at Syra’s toga. “They begin soon. We must hurry.”

Syra followed the others, but kept the rune in her hand. Its smooth surface felt solid beneath her fingers, as if she had acquired a piece of her homeland to carry along in her travels.

* * *

Brutus entered the Circus Maximus and scaled the staircase that led to the dignitaries’ seats. He could see that Antony already presided with his too-wide smile, patting his political rivals on the back as if they were both raised by the same she-wolf.

With the state of agitation of the crowd, the races would be starting soon. Perhaps the sport was a good idea. The public needed to vent its anxiety and frustration. Best done here rather than out in Rome’s streets.

Brutus watched Marc speak with a wealthy land baron. With this many rich and powerful men around, there was no way to get Antony alone at this juncture. He would need to corner the younger Roman after the games and demand an explanation for the dart.

Avoiding Antony’s gaze, Brutus tried to find a seat removed from the commotion, but Marc would have none of it.

“Brutus! Please. You must sit up here.”

There was no arguing with the hearty Roman. With resignation, he climbed the last steps to the top platform. Antony grabbed Brutus’ arm in welcome, as though they had suckled on the same wet nurse. Disgusted, Brutus did not grip back and allowed his hand to fall away as soon as Marc released his hold. The younger lieutenant was not done with him yet, however.

“I am surprised to see you here, Brut. I had heard you were buried under a mound of papyrus.”

Trying to avoid discussion, Brutus moved toward his seat. “There is still more work to be done.”

“Caesar feared that we would need to burn you out if you did not surface by the Ides!”

Others laughed. Some out of politeness, but others chuckled heartily. To them, Rome was but a gaudy toy for their amusement. Aligned with Caesar, they felt immune to the workings of the world. Antony and a league of eager youths soared where Icarus dared to fly. Would these Romans’ wings melt as well? Would their tumble to the hard earth prove equally fatal?

Unaware of Brutus’ internal musings, Antony’s smile shone in the hot March dusk. The sun lowered beyond the horizon—its colors rich with orange fire. The air hung heavy with heat and even thicker with excitement. The games were normally reserved for September, but Cleopatra had insisted that her charioteers be given a chance to race upon the famed Circus Maximus. The people could not be happier. They lusted for the crack of the whip and the flurry of hooves.

Caesar meant to make these games year-round, over the desperate protests of the Senate. Some traditions should not be changed. These races were supposed to be gifts to the gods. In the fall, the veil between this world and Mount Olympus thinned. It was said that the gods looked down and were pleased by these games. They were not supposed to be a sport or a liquor for the masses. But Caesar had risen to power by giving the populace exactly what it wanted.

Brutus could not understand the people’s obsession with such games. There was work to be done. Aqueducts to be repaired. Statues of beauty, so dear that your heart ached, to sculpt. Would this city become drunk on this intoxicating sport? Would it become dull-eyed and hazed, as Caesar was on the wine of his Egyptian lover?

Those questions would have to be answered later, as the first blare of the horn carried across the crowd. The chariots were being called to their starting positions. The races would begin momentarily. Luckily, Antony’s attention was diverted to several new senators, allowing Brutus to find his official seat to the right of the dais. He glanced over one last time before taking his chair, to find the loveliest sight.

A woman, cloaked in a fabric the color of the deepest midnight, boldly climbed the stairs toward a seat not far from the dais. The edges of the cloth fluttered in the breeze, to reveal copper-red hair and fiery emerald eyes.

“Syra!” Brutus and Antony exclaimed in unison.

Brutus was not certain why he became so annoyed. Was it that Antony felt so familiar with the Northerner, or that Syra seemed to look at the younger Roman first? Her lips turned upward briefly, then sank into a frown. Had the sliver of a smile been for him and the down-turned lips for Antony, or vice versa? Normally such a question would not even rise in his mind, let alone take root, yet here he was anxious to know the answer.

Marc was quicker to his feet, and motioned Syra to the staircase up to the dais. “You must join us!”

Antony rushed down the steps to meet her halfway and offered a hand up the stairs. “Here, my lady. You must sit in the front.”

Brutus’ lips curled up as she eschewed the younger Roman’s hand and climbed the steps of her own accord. He noticed others from his household trailing behind her, reluctant to ascend the steps to the regal platform. Brutus gave a slight nod to Fiona for them to follow. The younger woman, Navia, was all eyes as she followed the cook. Tiberius looked ready to burst from his skin as he took in the impressive view of the racetrack. Fiona led the others to a discreet section of seats near the back of the platform as Syra sat down beside Brutus.

The heat of the sun did not bring sweat to his skin as this Northerner did. Next to Syra, Brutus could see that Antony’s body reacted in the same way. But did the younger Roman’s heart feel the same surge of warmth? Did Marc feel raw lust, or did he have a desire to know the woman beneath the beauty? Could the bold lieutenant ever appreciate the maze of scars on her back and kiss away their pain?

Brutus realized he might never know that pleasure as the second trumpet blared. The games were at hand. Despite his initial disdain, Brutus realized that if the Northerner was a patron of this sport, he might be forced to develop a taste for these races.

* * *

Syra kept her sights on the field before her, trying to ignore the men who flanked her. What had she been thinking, joining Brutus and Antony? Sadly, Syra had not been thinking at all when she changed course toward the dais.

The roar of the massive crowd had unsettled her feet, and she had nearly stumbled upon the step. Syra had fought in wars upon the most congested of battlefields, yet they paled to the mob assembled this day. Tiberius had scoffed at the poor turnout to these foreign races, but Syra was close to being overwhelmed. How could all of these people jostle for position? How could they push and shove their sweaty bodies together? Did they have no dignity?

The smell of the foul crowd and the sound of their rude shouts had shaken her in a way she was unused to. To hear her name above the din was like a bear’s call to a lost cub. She had been heartened to see Brutus’ familiar face swim above the crowd of boisterous strangers. Her relief had been short-lived as Antony burst in between them. Was the arrogant Roman always in her path? She diligently avoided Marc over the past week, but here she was, sitting next to him.

For all her unease with the mob, she would have felt better staying amongst the crowd. The two men held an angry tension between them. Like silk rubbed together, they pushed away from another like sworn enemies. But like fingers between the cloth, there was an energy that kept them never far apart.

The air crackled with unspoken words. She would not be the least bit surprised if the lush fabric of her chair did not burst into flame, given the men’s hot emotions. The crowd’s crushing presence did nothing to dilute the hostility that surrounded her.

For just a moment, she was newly glad to be high upon the platform as the third and final trumpet resounded across the open field. The mob, now wild with anticipation, crushed forward and shook the short wall that held them back from the track. Syra could not imagine being amongst the mindless surge of flesh that strained at their confinement. Even from her vantage point, she could barely make out the far end of the field.

The Circus Maximus was impossibly long. Some rivers did not run as lengthy a course as this track.