Love Is in the Air (61 page)

Finally, the straggling crew retired below deck, leaving the night watchman the only one visible. Still, Syra stayed hidden. It would not do to be caught so early in her journey home. Her plan required stealth. She would stow away until this ship reached Osteria at the mouth of the Mediterranean. There, a ship heading west to the ocean would be easy to find. By the snow’s fall, Syra would be back in Scotland.

Making sure that no other stirred, Syra crept forward. With her pack slung across her back, she inched her way to the edge of the bank. Only a few feet of water lapped between the wooden hull and the sandy shore.

Using all of the energy born of frustration and shame, Syra crouched low, then sprang from the ground into the air. She hit the hull hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs, but the ship was large and did not rock an inch. Holding tight to the wooden rail, Syra stayed perfectly still, listening for the sound of footsteps. After several painful breaths, Syra climbed over the side and gently landed on the deck.

Hidden in the shadows of the bridge, Syra crouched down and listened once again. Only the sound of crickets singing to their intended broke the quiet night. Sneaking toward the hatch that led to the hold, Syra froze as voices drifted on the lingering breeze. Another had joined the sailor on deck. Carefully, Syra made her way to the hatch. Biting her lip at the effort, she lifted the hatch door then lowered herself below deck.

The holds were filled with all colors and textures of textiles. Making certain that no one else occupied the most forward hold, Syra settled in for the most dreadful night of her life.

CHAPTER 15

Brutus stumbled through the afternoon. After a sleepless night of worrying about Syra, he had trouble feeling truly awake. Somehow he had avoided anyone that might disturb the soothing fog that settled over his mind. There was much to do, much to consider, yet he was numb to it all. Since the Senate would not assemble until the next day, Brutus had sought out the one place in all of Rome that would embrace him like the green-eyed lover he would never know.

The Tabularium.

Brutus breathed in the stale air of the ancient archive. He was deep within the repository’s vaults. The crumbling parchments were a balm to his wounded heart. With the history of Rome blanketing him, Brutus felt an ounce of reprieve from his life of turmoil. Every scrap of papyrus that had ever passed through the Forum found its eternal home down in these crypts of knowledge.

Squinting in the waning candlelight, Brutus lit another wick. Time crept sluggishly down in this bowel of the city. Soon, he would have to emerge from his self-imposed exile and attend dinner with Caesar. Then, and only then, might this weight lift from his chest. After this night, he should be free of the snarled trap. Brutus dreamed of nothing more challenging than a quiet life in the countryside. Let these others carve out history on their own.

Brutus cocked an ear as a sound echoed off the long hallways. The deeper levels of the Tabularium were built like tombs. The thick rock protected the vital information from war and fire alike. They also insulated the vault from the clamorous noise of the Forum. While the rest of the city slept off its binge from the night before, workers were still clearing the massive tables from the Forum Square.

Another scuff drew Brutus’ attention. This time there was no mistaking the sound of footsteps. He was not surprised by the intrusion. He was only amazed that it had taken someone so long to find him. By the crisp step of one, it was certainly Cassius. The second had a slight limp on the left side—Cicero. The third he did not recognize.

Cassius was the first to come into view. His face held his usual caustic smirk. Cicero, though, seemed winded by the long walk down the stairs. Perhaps he had ingested too much wine and sweetmeats the night before. The third man surprised Brutus. It was Longius, Lylith’s brother.

Brutus rose to greet his uninvited guests.

“You’ve posted no guard, Brutus? Do you grow lax?” Cassius asked. Brutus doubted if he expected an answer.

“There is nothing for us to discuss, gentlemen. It would be best if you continued your day above in the light of Rome’s glory.”

“Brutus, please. Tomorrow the dawn rises upon the Ides. We must speak,” Cicero nearly begged.

Brutus did not wish a long debate. His patience was long spent. He knew, perhaps better than any other, what the “morrow would bring.” “I will render my decision in the morning.”

“You will render? Who do you think you are, Brutus?” Cicero asked. His voice was filled with reproach.

Brutus looked at his old mentor. “Why, I think I am the most important person in all the Senate. Is that not what you told me just a week ago, Cicero?”

“Yes, but—”

“There are no buts. Tomorrow if I arrive at the Curia, I am with you. If I do not, I would suggest you make haste from Rome before Antony finds you.”

The force of certainty in Brutus’ tone silenced even Cassius. Before, Brutus might have been respectful, or even shy in his words. Now, with so much lost, he had lost his caution as well. These men had turned his life into the abyss that it was. He owed them nothing. Certainly not his respect.

The younger man waved the other senators away. Cassius spit, then turned. Lylith’s lean brother stood straight. “You have changed, Brutus. You treated my sister most sorely last night.”

“She thought to blackmail me.”

“You have brought turmoil into my house.”

Brutus only shrugged. He cared not about the problems he brought Longius. Cicero hung back and looked at the scrolls upon the long shelves. He brushed the dust off one in particular.

“Tell me, Brutus, what knowledge has all of this research brought you?”

“That Rome has had kings before, and it might have one again.”

Instead of his usual rage, Cicero only nodded and fingered through the pages as if they discussed the best way to bake a cake. “It might. But at what cost?”

Brutus sighed. “I do not think to read the future, Cicero. All things change. Perhaps it is time for Rome to follow suit.”

A sad smile played on the orator’s face. He sat down upon a chair. “You can save Caesar. It would be a simple thing. He will believe you if you speak of a conspiracy.”

“Yes, he would,” Brutus said with hesitation. What was Cicero angling at?

“Have you thought of what will unfold after that? You hold dozens of your fellow senators’ lives in your hands, Brutus. Are you willing to sacrifice all of them as well?”

“They have made their decision, Cicero. When one plots against Caesar, one must accept the risks.”

The orator nodded and rose. He handed Brutus the scroll. “I ask only one thing, Brutus. Tonight when you sit across from Caesar, ask yourself one most singular question. Is
he
fit to be king? Will he forge a nation better than a cleansing civil war? Then make your decision.”

Without another word, Cicero walked away, limping slightly on his left leg—the one injured in Gaul a dozen years ago. The orator had given much to Rome. As difficult it was to remember in a moment like this, Cicero had given much to Brutus as well.

Brutus sank into the chair. These men might be arrogant, but they truly were fighting for what they believed in. Caesar was no better than they. Julius would wreak havoc for the benefit of his own pride as surely as Cassius would kill him for it.

Looking down, Brutus realized that the scroll Cicero had given him was a speech given long ago by his good friend, Pompey. His eyes moistened at the memory. Brutus had forgotten how eloquently his former ally had defended the Republic against Caesar’s excesses. Spain had hated being under Caesar’s rule, whereas they had thrived under Pompey’s guidance.

Would Rome suffer the same fate if Caesar ascended to the throne?

Pompey had felt strongly enough to wage war against Caesar. Could Brutus do no less in his memory? The wick sputtered again, reducing the flame to a bare flicker. The hour grew late, and he had a dinner to attend.

For Pompey, and for all that Cicero had given unselfishly to Rome, Brutus would keep a clear mind this night. He would ask himself that singular question—was Caesar fit to be king?

* * *

Syra huddled in the exact spot she had lowered herself into the night before. The boat rocked gently as it made its way downstream, but she barely noticed as the light faded from the sky. The moon had risen and fallen. Now the sun was following suit. She had dared not sleep. Not last night or this day. It was not the danger of discovery that fueled her insomnia, but a fear of the dream world.

What images would it taunt her with? She had enough pain. She did not need to add to it in her sleep.

The ship had pulled up anchor hours ago. They were well down the Tiber, yet Syra could not find the energy to rise to even steal food. Sadness weighed her down more surely than the ship’s anchor. Despair wore heavily upon her heart. What was the point in fleeing Rome when the pain just followed?

Hunger flared as it had for hours, but Syra ignored the pangs. Food would do little to soothe the greater agony that gnawed at her intestines. There was little reason to eat when one wished only to find a grave and crawl into it for eternity. But her stomach was insistent in its protests.

Simply to quiet the burning, Syra reached into the pack the hag had given her. Perhaps the old woman had included some food in the satchel.

Blindly digging within the pack, Syra pulled out a small waterskin. She thought to take only a sip, but once the fluid was upon her mouth, Syra thirstily sucked down the entire flask. After licking her lips, she rummaged with more purpose through the pack. Now that her stomach had tasted moisture, it screamed for sustenance.

Passing over a change of shirt, Syra dug deeper within the satchel. Surely the hag had packed an apple or two.

Her hand felt something firm. Was it the hilt of a dagger? Her fingers ran over the carved surface. Even without light, Syra knew the handle was made from a sheep’s thighbone. Her hand knew each and every curve to the design. The hilt was fashioned as a she-wolf suckling the twins, Romulus and Remus.

With a sudden rush of terror, Syra jerked her hand out of the pack, bringing the dagger with her. It had felt like the dagger was white hot, burning her hand. The blade tumbled once in the air, then fell to the floor. There it lay against the bare wood. A dark substance flecked the metal, making it dull rather than glowing with heat.

Syra checked her skin. It was undamaged. Which of the hag’s tricks was this?

Up on her haunches now, Syra poked at the dagger like she was a monkey exploring a snake that had struck then fell dead. She knew that she had never seen the knife before, yet it felt more familiar than her own name.

But it could not be from her native land. From the yellowing of the bony hilt, the dagger looked as old as Rome itself. How had the hag come to acquire such a prize? And why did it affect her so?

Syra was so engrossed in the mystery of the dagger that she did not hear the intruder until he was upon her. Luckily the creak of a loose plank sounded as he lunged, otherwise she might have been caught unawares.

“Scag!” the sailor cursed.

Throwing herself to the side, Syra landed hard on her right shoulder, but she was close enough to the dagger to snatch the blade before the man launched his second attack. Syra’s hair fell from the loose tie and tumbled over her shoulders.

The sailor’s face brightened. “A wench? Looking for a bit of fun?”

Swinging around, Syra let him lunge at her. Only at the last second did she bring the knife to bear. The sailor impaled himself upon the blade before he even realized she was armed. A cry escaped his lips as the hilt rammed into his abdomen. Falling backward, the knife slid out of the wound with a sickening sound.

The sailor fell backward, clutching the bloody wound. Within a single heartbeat, Syra was left standing over the dead man, his blood dripping from her knife.

The room spun and rocked. Squinting, Syra wished for the discordant sights and sounds to leave her head. This was not the first man she had killed, yet she found it hard to take a single breath. The dagger refused to be released from her hand. The carving of Romulus and Remus burned into her palm.

Opening her eyes, she was shocked to find the room aglow with light. Syra spun around. Rock walls replaced the wooden hull. It took her mind a moment to recognize the temple was that of Hephaistos. The very temple where Romulus was buried beneath black marble.

Even though her feet could still feel the pitch and roll of the ship, when she cast her eyes down, they saw solid marble. Her hands could still feel the cool surface of the bone hilt, yet when she looked, there was no blade in her grip. How could this be? Had the old woman bewitched the water in the skin? Was this what Caesar felt when he had his convulsions?

When Syra looked up, she was no longer alone. At the altar was a trio of priests chanting to their god. Others were gathered in a semicircle around the sacrificial fire. Beside her stood Romulus. She would have recognized him from the multitude of statues around the city, but Syra did not need the recent memory for such recognition. She would have known this man’s face even if she had never left Scotland. How, she did not know, but it brought her heart relief to see his face once again.

Romulus looked down and smiled upon her. A leather tie pulled his sandy brown hair back. He had the bluest eyes that spoke of an eagle soaring across the open sky. Even if herbs induced this vision, Syra’s soul was lifted higher by his adoration. She knew each line that etched the skin around the Roman’s eyes. Syra knew the feel of her hand when she soothed the worry from the furrows of his forehead.

“They owe this not to me,” the tall Roman said.

Her eyes asked him why.

“If it were not for you and your geese, Rome never would have been forged.”

Syra could remember that night long ago upon Capitoline Hill. Hostile forces surrounded them. None of the others thought that the enemy would attack through the swamp and scale the backside of the hill. She could feel herself fume in frustration.