Love Is in the Air (59 page)

“Dear, smile. You are not in a funeral procession,” Lylith chided, even though she wore a false grin of her own. “Artemidorus is trying to tell you of our king’s new plans for the Curia.”

Brutus did not bother to correct his wife that Caesar was not yet king. Besides, the woman was only a few days premature in her proclamation. Turning to the flabby senator, Brutus made sure that he nodded at all the right intervals. Suddenly, the portly Roman’s tone dropped.

“Cassius seeks you tonight.”

Normally Brutus ignored Artemidorus. The man was always sniveling about an ailment of his bowels or complaining that the Senate was not protecting his monopoly of the tangerine trade. What would the obese man know of Cassius’ plans?

“Then he can find me here.”

“Beware—”

Before the senator could speak his warning, Lylith’s shrill voice pieced their conversation.

“Where is that serving girl? My glass has gone empty again.”

While Brutus had yet to finish a single goblet, his wife had just drained her third. He turned to Artemidorus, but the enormous man was out of his chair and heading toward the exit. Was Cassius so desperate for conspirators that he had taken even the hypochondriac into his confidence?

Brutus did not need Artemidorus’ prompting to fear for his life this night. All the signs were clear that both sides of Rome’s internal struggle had run out of patience. Brutus had best decide which side he disliked the least before the decision was taken from him.

“I will have the girl fired,” Lylith continued as if a fourth glass of wine was the most important matter on his mind.

Brutus picked up Lylith’s gilded cup. “I shall be back.”

His wife batted her eyes, as if it were the single most romantic gesture he had ever made. “Thank you, my sweet.”

Disgust brought such a bitter taste to his mouth that he could not reply. Brutus simply rose and headed to the nearest servant bearing wine. He declined a glass for himself, wondering if the boy with the cup had been planted to poison him. The food most likely tasted dull because with every bite, Brutus had wondered if it was somehow tainted. Or perhaps the next servant he saw would wield a stealthy knife.

Brutus looked out over the sea of partygoers. The Forum was awash in bodies. One could not move an elbow without hitting another. One could not even hear himself think for the clink of plates and excited conversations. There was not a single missing politician. It seemed that all of Rome had converged upon the Forum this night. Brutus frowned at the packed crowd. Which ones would see him dead? Which ones had the constitution as well to make certain that he died?

“Enjoying yourself?” a voice asked from behind.

Brutus tensed. Would this be the moment that his flesh felt the bite of steel? For Brutus instantly recognized the voice. It was Cassius. Slowly he turned to face his fellow senator.

“Perhaps less than I should.”

The older man sneered. “You should enjoy it while you can. After tonight, gaiety will be a distant memory.”

“How right you are, Cassius. Many serious matters must be approached.”

“This must be resolved, dear Brutus, resolved.”

With that said, the senator waved to a comrade across the way and set off, leaving Brutus to hold Lylith’s wine in a shaky hand. He knew the resolution that Cassius sought, and Brutus could only hope it did not reach its conclusion this night.

Steadying his muscles, Brutus returned to his table. Lylith’s tinkling laugh set his teeth on edge. He sank into his seat and set the goblet before her. Perhaps another few glasses would quiet her tongue or, at the least, take the gusto out of her lungs. Lylith patted his arm, then drew a finger down his skin as if they were lovers having an intimate moment. Nausea gripped his stomach, but he dared not reproach her.

One more night
, Brutus said silently over and over, as if the chant would keep him sane.

* * *

Syra felt the air rush from her lungs as she spotted Brutus. Lylith laid a possessive hand over his arm. But what had Syra thought she would find? The woman was his wife. Why should she not enjoy the feel of Brutus’ skin?

“Ah, there is Brutus. We should visit, should we not?” Antony asked as he guided her over to the couple’s table.

Although she had kept the younger Roman at arm’s distance, she did not resist when Antony laid his hand on her hip. Brutus needed to know that he did not own all of Syra.

Before they could get a single step, someone called out to them, “Marc!”

Antony’s face lit up in a staged smile. “Cassius. How fares thee?”

“I’m certain I will be far better after the Ides,” the older man said.

Syra’s heart clenched. Her hand dropped to her side, only to realize no sword hung there. How she wished to lash out, even if it were only with her tongue. But Brutus did not want the man exposed yet, and Syra would abide. Still it galled her to stand quietly in front of the man who endangered not only Brutus but her friends as well.

“Aye. We all will be. Rome needs leadership now, as never before,” Antony stated to Cassius, even though he was already surveying the rest of the crowd.

“Well, I will not keep you. My lady,” Cassius bowed his head to Syra, then strode off.

Antony leaned into her. “That is one to watch. As some people raise doves for sport, Cassius breeds darkness in his heart.”

For once, Syra could not argue with Marc. She felt a chill down her spine as she watched Cassius blend into the mill of partygoers. He was like a snake that slithered through the grass—only to show its scales when it next struck.

The Roman must have noticed the concern that crossed Syra’s face, for Antony patted her hip. “Now, do not fret, my precious. You need not fear while you are with me.” He urged her forward. “Let us finish with greetings and find our place at Caesar’s table.”

Suddenly, Syra was reluctant to face Brutus. She did not fear his anger. Instead, she was loath to see the look of disappointment on his face. There was no need for him to know she was even at the celebration. Syra could easily watch over him from afar.

“Nay,” Syra said as she suggestively leaned against the Roman. “Let us find a place alone.”

Marc’s lips spread in an appreciative smile. “Patience, my darling. I must at least attend Caesar for a few minutes.”

“Then, let us seek him out.”

Antony had taken the bait with his mouth wide open and his eyes completely shut. Instead of angling toward Brutus, the Roman set a course for the far end. They would have made their retreat without Brutus being the wiser if it was not for a high-pitched voice that carried over the crowd.

“Antony!”

Syra already knew the dreaded tone. It was Lylith.

Marc looked at Syra apologetically. “I must acknowledge her.”

She did not need to feign looking irritated. “If we must.”

* * *

Brutus picked at his stewed eggplant when Lylith poked his arm excitedly. “See who has arrived!”

He did not bother to look up. Brutus had heard his wife call out to Antony much as the entire Forum had. Lylith truly was determined to make his night a living torment.

“And look who he has brought.”

At the least, Brutus had to acknowledge the younger senator. Raising his gaze, he felt the air freeze in his lungs. Three thoughts simultaneously strangled the breath from his lips. One was Syra’s pure radiance. Neither the moonlight nor the torchlight could compare to the glow that bathed her face. The second was that she had disobeyed him. The third was that Antony’s hand was laid firmly on the curve of Syra’s hip. The first sight gladdened his heart. The second angered his mind. The third drove his body to distraction.

He could not read the Northerner’s thoughts as he scanned her face. What had she been thinking? Did she not realize the danger she had placed them both in? Why did she not trust that he knew best?

“Syra.” The name was more a plea.

Lylith had no such restraint. “Antony, I’m surprised to see you with her.”

While the two talked, Brutus tried to catch Syra’s gaze, but the Northerner stared intently upon the table.

“Why?” Marc answered with equal surprise. “You know I appreciate beauty in all of its forms.”

“Aye, but normally you do not stoop to such depths for it.”

Brutus jerked his head around at Lylith. What was she speaking of?

Antony seemed to have the same concerns. “Why would you say such a thing, Lylith? She stays at your own abode.”

“Aye, she does live under my roof.” Lylith turned to Brutus. “Have you not told him?”

With his eyes, Brutus begged his wife to abort the tragic course she had plotted, but it was no use. He could see Syra’s back straighten and her shoulders tense. Brutus was desperate to change the subject but could think of no words. How could he, when all he could think about was reaching out to the Northerner and begging her to go home?

Marc tired of the game. “Speak plainly, woman.”

“Tell him, Brutus,” Lylith insisted.

Syra finally looked up, her eyes searching his own. Brutus had never seen the Northerner look so vulnerable. But he was caught in a cross fire.

“There is nothing to tell,” Brutus tried to sound convincing, but Lylith would have none of it, and Antony looked equally unsatisfied. Could they not leave the issue alone? What did it matter of Syra’s origins? Brutus knew that Syra’s heart was filled with hard-won pride. How could he take that from her? How could he label her a slave when he never truly thought of her as such?

“Tell him, husband.” This time Lylith dug her nails into his leg. She did not need to speak her mind, those biting fingers told the tale. Either Brutus cast Syra out in this moment, or Lylith would expose the secret of his heritage.

Desperately, Brutus tried to say so much to Syra with only his eyes. Would she ever understand that his next action was to protect them all? Not just Syra and himself, but Horat, Fiona, and the rest of the household? He could sense Lylith getting ready to lose her patience as her nails drew blood from his skin. Closing his eyes for a moment, Brutus prayed to any god who might be listening that one day Syra could forgive him.

His heart hardened to the task, Brutus looked away from the Northerner and settled his gaze upon Antony.

“She has lured you under false pretenses, Marc.” Brutus could not even glance toward Syra as he spoke his next words. “She is nothing but a slave.”

* * *

For the words that came out of Brutus’ mouth, he might as well have taken a lance and split her belly open. Syra struggled to breathe as shame rushed over her in waves. Vaguely she heard Antony ask if it was true, but she did not respond. How could she? Lips trembling, Syra could not have formed a response even if she wanted to. Her eyes bored into Brutus, but even in this, he refused her any dignity. Blinking back hot tears, Syra turned from the table.

Antony tried to grab her arm, but she was away before his hand ever touched her skin. How could she have been such a fool? Syra wished to run. She wished to throw herself from the nearest building, but she could not humiliate herself any further.

Once past the guard at the gate, Syra’s feet took over, and she sped from the Forum. Stomach churning, she had to stop at the nearest planter. With bile in the back of her throat, Syra doubled over, retching into the dirt.

Years of fighting in bloody mud had never turned her stomach the way that the Roman had. Wiping her mouth, she rose to find two dainty women snickering at her.

Those two pretty things probably thought she had ingested too much wine. Instead, she had trusted too deeply. Syra had misjudged the Roman in the worst way. She had taken a great risk to protect him, and he had struck her down for her efforts.

Hugging her midsection as if a pike had penetrated it, Syra struggled to leave the area. But her legs were weak as if all the blood had drained straight out of them. Wracking sobs threatened to unbalance her. The pain was unbearable. Syra would have rather taken a dozen spears to her chest than the wound she carried in her heart.

“It will pass,” a voice soothed.

Syra could not even spin around to meet the speaker. An arm encompassed her shoulders and guided her to a small bench.

“Shh, now. Let it flow through you.”

Syra might have struggled against her captor, but nausea threatened again. A hand stroked her back as she bent over, clinging to her knees for balance.

“There, now. Don’t fight it.”

Finally, as the acid flowed back down her throat, Syra looked up to find the hag sitting next to her. Anger replaced the bile.

“You.” Swallowing hard, Syra nearly shouted, “You. It is your fault!”

“If you say so, but there are far more important things that we must discuss.”

Syra jerked her arm away from the old woman. Rage gave her limbs strength again. Jumping to her feet, she pointed an accusing finger at the woman who had urged her along this disastrous path.

“You told me to stay in Rome. You said my destiny lay ahead!”

“And it still does, child.”

“Do not call me that, hag. Your daughter was right. The gods have touched you.”

The old woman chuckled as she rose from the bench. “Nay, but they have you.”

“The gods have used me as a plaything and now have cast me aside.” Syra’s voice threatened to crack under the strain. “I will listen to no more of your lies.”

The old woman blocked her path. “So you run? A deserter?”

“Do not dare challenge my courage, woman.” Rage coursed through her veins. She had yet to intentionally strike another woman, but Syra was more than ready to make an exception.

Snorting, the hag spat at her feet. “You know nothing of courage. To stay would be brave, to run is like a child.”

“You are a fool. There is nothing to stay for.”

“Brutus’ life still hangs in the balance.”

This Syra could stand for no longer. “He could stand before me with his guts spilling from his toga, and I would give him no aid.”

“Blast it, girl! Are you still that blinded?”

Syra pushed her way past the woman, making the old hag stumble to the side. She cared not. She cared for very little anymore. Destiny be damned, she wished only to see the world past Rome’s gate. That was her only desire.