Love Is in the Air (51 page)

Tiberius began sobbing again. “They were going to kill my sister!”

Syra’s head jerked to look at Brutus. She had been told the boy was an orphan.

“But she died along with your family, Ti.”

“They said that she lived!” The child shook his head violently and showed them the small broken coin around his neck. “They had the other half.”

“It could have been forged,” Syra offered.

“Nay. It had ‘Kit’ inscribed. It was her nickname. They could not have known.” Tiberius collapsed into Syra’s arms. “Now she is forfeit.”

She could see that Brutus’ temper flared, but the child was not truly to blame. How could a ten-year-old understand the workings of the world? How could he know the hurt that his deceit brought to Brutus? But it was easy for her to be so understanding. It was not her pride that had been injured.

“Who ordered you to do this?” Brutus asked. His voice shook with rage.

“I do not know. Two burly men jerked me aside one day in the market. I did not recognize them, I swear!”

“Why did you not tell me?” Pain was so clear in Brutus’ tone that Syra nearly laid a hand upon his shoulder, but she restrained herself. It was not her place to comfort the senator.

The boy’s face was half buried in Syra’s shoulder, so the words were slurred. “If I told, they would kill her. They said if I did this one last thing, they would bring me to her!”

“One last? What else have you done?” Brutus’ angry voice brought unwelcome stares from a few of the workers. He lowered his tone. “Tiberius, what else have you done?”

The words were but a squeak. “Caesar’s chariot.”

“How could you?” Brutus hissed.

“I just put some rocks in the road. It was just supposed to bump the chariot. He wasn’t supposed to be going that fast!”

The boy descending into racking sobs again. Syra stroked Tiberius’ hair and gave Brutus a look that begged him to stop the questioning. Could he not see that the child was consumed by guilt? No boy should be given such hard choices at such a soft age.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Syra whispered to the boy, ignoring Brutus’ angry expression. “All will be forgiven.”

“Not by him,” Tiberius said as he moved from her embrace and collapsed onto the horse again. “Not by him.”

She stroked his back. The boy needed rest, but they needed to know one last detail. “When were they going to take you to your sister?”

“Tonight. At the zenith of the moon I was to meet them at the Harried House.”

Syra patted him one last time, then rose to speak with Brutus. They moved off a step to be out of ear’s reach. “They will be taking him nowhere. They mean to kill him this night.”

“Then perhaps we should not intervene.”

“Brutus! He is but a child.”

The Roman’s cheeks were flushed, and he seemed to have a hard time speaking the words that his lips formed. “A child who betrayed not only me, but his country as well.”

Something inside Syra’s chest snapped at Brutus’ attitude. “What do you know of betrayal? You have been pampered your entire life. Catered to. What do you know of desperation? What of you at ten? I doubt if you had much more difficult decisions than what grain to have for breakfast.”

The color drained from the Roman’s skin, and he avoided her gaze. Syra softened her tone. “Imagine being stripped from your family, then responsible for your sister’s life. He made the only choice he could.”

Brutus sounded no older than a child himself. “He could have come to me.”

Were these noblemen so blind? “He is but an orphan, Brutus. A commoner. He could not conceive that you would care for such things.”

The Roman truly sounded exasperated. “I have fed him, clothed him, educated him…” Brutus’ voice trailed off until it could barely be heard. “Loved him.”

Syra realized that the anger had not been wounded pride, but a bruised heart. Could this senator really care about this scrawny stable boy? Would Brutus have protected him the way he claimed? Had both Tiberius and she misjudged him? There was only one way to find out.

“The child is but the hand of the conspiracy. Not the mind. If you wish to uncover the foul heart of the plot, Tiberius must attend this meeting.”

“No. You were right.” Brutus straightened and appeared the statesman again. “It is too great a risk. I shall go in his stead.”

Her heart quickened a beat. Had she truly found a man that held honor as close to his bosom as she did? “Brutus, we hold an advantage. They do not know that we are aware of this plot. If you go, the game will turn in their favor.”

“That may be true, but I will not allow them their folly with Tiberius anymore. The child must be protected.”

“Aye. Someone needs be with him at the rendezvous.”

“Then I—”

Syra unconsciously put a hand out onto Brutus’ arm. “Look at you. Those red shoes alone will give you away.”

Brutus drew back from her touch. “I shall go disguised.”

Pausing, Syra studied the man before her. Did he not know that no cloak could conceal his noble lineage? His strong nose and bold chin would be spotted in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. The way he stood, walked, or even breathed, spoke of command. Even if he had been of poor birth, Syra was certain that he would have risen through the ranks more quickly than lightning struck at iron. How to explain this to the impatient Roman before her?

“You cannot hide your height or your broad shoulders, Brutus. It must be another.”

“I can ask no one else to endanger himself so.”

“You do not need to. I will go.”

Brutus’ face clouded over again. “Syra, are you daft? You talk of my shoulders. What of your… your figure? They will spot a woman all the more easily.”

Syra did not immediately respond. She was too surprised by his attitude. Their brief moments of closeness had blinded her to how little they truly knew of one another. Brutus was only aware of the tiny sliver of her life as slave and baker of Northern pastries. The years of her life in battle were still a mystery to him. What part of his past was closed to her as well? They were truly strangers trying to act as allies.

“Brutus, I have spent most of my life disguised as a man. I think I can do so for another night.”

“Nay. It shall be I.”

The boy had sobbed himself out, but was still draped over the dying horse. Syra urged the boy up.

“Tiberius, Fiona is upstairs. Find her and let her know we will be leaving shortly.”

“What of the horse?”

Syra straightened the boy’s brown locks. “Brutus shall stay with him. Now go. You must rest before night.”

Once the boy was on his way up the staircase, Syra turned back to Brutus. “You may go if you wish, Brutus, but I shall be trailing him.”

She turned to follow, but he grabbed her by arm. “I forbid it.”

Anger rose hot in her mouth. “So this is your true heart? You are the master and I truly the slave?”

“Nay.” His hand tightened for a breath, then he dropped his grip.

Syra hesitated. She was still angered, but this Roman kept her off-balance. One moment Brutus could say something to boil her blood, then look more vulnerable than a newborn babe. Now it was he who looked wounded and confused.

“Then why deny me this?”

“I just wish no one else to be in danger. Especially you.”

By his tone, Syra could tell that Brutus meant his words. It was the way they came out of his lips half formed. His eyes begged her to understand without speaking anything more. How could this damnable Roman tug at her heart? Now was not the time to debate such questions. They needed to go home and reason through all of the information they had found this day.

“Brutus, if you are in danger…” Syra pointed toward the departing shadow of Tiberius, “your entire household is in danger. You cannot spare us. We are already squarely in the bull’s-eye.”

* * *

There was no doubting Syra’s words. Just one look at the dying horse attested to Brutus’ inability to shelter innocents from this intrigue.

“You speak wisely. We will discuss this more at home. For now, can you escort them back?”

“Aye,” Syra said. For a moment it appeared that she wished to say more, but the fiery woman only bowed her head slightly, then followed Tiberius up the stairs.

Alone again, Brutus felt like slumping to his knees like the boy had done. Not for the loss of the horse, but for how utterly naïve he had been. How could he have not seen the boy’s pain? Was he that harsh a master that Tiberius could not have come to him? And now he had spoken the worst manner of things to Syra. Those things he had said about the boy had been said out of complete agony.

Even in those heated moments, his heart had known it was he, Brutus, who had failed Tiberius. Not the opposite, but his ego
had
lashed out at the child. If only he could snatch those words back from the air and stuff them down deep inside him so that no other could know of his abject failure to hold his temper.

Worse, he had seen the look upon Syra’s face when he uttered those vile words. The horror had been painfully clear. She was new to the household. The Northerner could not know that Brutus would never allow the boy to walk into harm’s way. Those rash words did not speak well of his character, but never, not even after the Styx iced over, would Brutus allow Tiberius to be injured. But would Syra ever believe him?

Would the Northerner ever understand that he had meant no disrespect when he denied her permission to follow Tiberius? Brutus could see upon her face that she assumed he thought her incapable of such a ruse. In truth, he could already sense the depth of her strength and conviction.

If the Northerner said she could feign manhood, Brutus believed her. Could she not understand that he did not wish her hurt as Tiberius had been? Was she too foreign to understand a man’s desire to protect the women of his household? Did she not know how tightly coiled she had his heart?

“Sire, it is time,” the keeper announced.

Brutus had not realized the man had approached, let alone was standing at his side. He nodded, and the keeper knelt down and whispered a prayer into the horse’s ear. In a swift motion, the man sliced the thick meat of the beast’s neck with a sharp blade. There was only one startled whinny, then the blood gushed from the gaping wound.

How he wished to look away, but Brutus was just as responsible as Tiberius for this horse’s death. So he stood his ground. And just like the Virgin’s stallion, Brutus watched the blood soak into the ground until it pooled and streamed down the floor. Until now, Caesar’s new ambition had only been paid in animals’ lives. How long until human blood saturated the ground so deeply that it made the Tiber run red?

CHAPTER 11

Syra tried to calm her frayed emotions as she watched the stars pass overhead. Just a few weeks in the luxury of a mansion, and the cold iron core she had relied upon for years had softened. To protect Tiberius and herself, Syra needed to find that steely edge that had kept her alive for decades.

The anxiety ate at her stomach, making it twist and growl. In all of the battles that she had fought, Syra had never felt such trepidation. From where was this tension arising? Tonight was a mission a thousandfold simpler than the one at that Spanish knoll. Her foes would most likely not number more than three. It should be a simple thing to protect the child, yet her heart beat just a little faster at the notion.

As the moon glided across the sparkling sky, Syra realized why her mind and body were unsettled. She actually cared about the outcome. Normally, Syra fought upon principles. Her goals were always clear—it was only the outcome that was uncertain. Allies could fall around her, but she would not flinch because the battle was still to be won.

In this fight, there could be no loss. If Tiberius even sustained a scratch, Syra would consider the night a failure. How could she face Fiona in the morning if she allowed the boy to be harmed?

Until this night, Syra had never felt accountable. She lived by her own sights. But now she worried for everyone in the household.

Syra greeted none of these revelations with joy. How could a decadent city such as Rome twist her heart so? Did the grueling trek across the countryside break Syra, as it had so many others? Tonight she could not ponder such questions. She needed to brace her body and prepare her mind for the task at hand. Whoever had put this conspiracy in motion had to be discovered, found, and eliminated.

“You can still return home.” Brutus’ voice carried on the gentle night’s breeze.

* * *

Brutus’ breath caught in his throat as Syra turned to him. She was no longer the beautiful woman of just a few hours ago. The Northerner’s smooth face looked as if she had a day’s stubble upon her cheek. Her normally flowing red hair was in a severe braid and covered in soot to hide its metallic sheen. Syra must have bound her torso, for the fullness of her breasts looked like nothing more than a man’s overfondness of sweet-meats. The loose trousers hid the full curves of her hips, and the thick boots concealed her petite feet. To crown the deception, Brutus’ own thick cloak covered her delicate shoulders with its rough cloth. Syra had been most accurate in her assertion. She truly looked the man.

Only her husky voice sounded familiar. “There is no choice.”

Emerald eyes sought his. How could he let her go alone? Now it was not just Tiberius’ blood on his hands, but hers as well. “I should join you.”

Syra straightened, and her voice deepened to a tone he had never heard before. Even though she always had a thick tone, it no longer held the sensual feminine lilt. She now sounded the man as well when she spoke. “You are a senator, sir. You cannot dirty your hands in such petty intrigue.”

How he hated the rightness in her words. To be caught in the Tucson district this late at night would be quite the scandal. No one in his position would follow the boy. They would use an agent. But still his blood fought against the notion. It was his household, and he should defend it. Society be damned.

Syra must have sensed his unease, for she took a step closer and lowered her voice back to its natural pitch. “Do not fret so. I will be back before the sun crests the hills.”