Love Is in the Air (64 page)

The old woman still looked distraught as Syra laid a hand upon the hag’s shoulder. “The dagger will be our secret, Mirta. The Order need never know.”

The hag shook her head. “At the least I should be exiled. My line thrown from the Order.”

“Nay. Times change,” Syra said.

This forced Awakening had taken its toll, but she would not let Mirta take the full blame. Other forces felt at work. Something had blocked their natural Awakening. The Order needed one such as Mirta.

“Perhaps the Order needs to respond to change as well.”

Syra stood alongside the horses. The hag had chosen well. Syra’s horse was long-legged, with thick muscles rippling along its hindquarters. Putting a foot in the stirrup, Syra pulled herself into the saddle. As she adjusted the reins, she felt the swimming nausea crash over her again. Until she Awakened Brutus and felt his hand in hers, this nightmare would not end.

Beside her, the old woman tried to mount her steed as well, but her old bones were not quite up to the challenge. The trip down the river must have taxed Mirta deeply.

“Nay, Mirta. Stay and rest.”

“I must accompany you.”

Syra shook her head. “I ride alone.”

“But you will need me. The Crux is at hand.”

Once again, Syra shook her head. “Your duty was discharged when I Awakened.”

“It may not be my duty, but it is my desire.”

Syra urged her horse over to the old woman. “I have great need of you. This Awakening has been most strange. You must go back to the Order. You must assemble the Scholars long after Brutus and I have departed to determine why this Awakening has been so tardy.”

“All the more reason for me to stay near. I know nothing of this life.”

“Your knowledge even thus far is invaluable. I will not have you at risk.”

The old woman once again tried to gain her saddle, but failed. Her eyes begged Syra to reconsider. “There is so much still to learn.”

Syra did not wish to shame the old woman, but she would never reach Rome in time if she had Mirta in tow. But the hag did have a sound argument. If the Order was to divine their tumultuous Awakening, then they would need to know more about their lives.

“Find a girl named Navia. She is with child. Take her into the Order. We traveled together from Spain. There is no one in this world who knows me better.”

“But. But…” the old woman sputtered. “But she is not born to the Order.”

Syra’s face softened. It had been long since The Fated walked this earth. The Order had forgotten whence they came. “And neither was your line until I took them in. Find the girl. Brutus’ servant, Horat, will know of whom I speak.”

“Of course. Brutus’ Guardian will know of her.”

Syra swung back around. “Guardian? Horat is a Guardian?”

The old woman looked surprised. “Yes. I thought you had recognized him.”

“Harn,” Syra said with relish.

Horat might have shaved his head, but the similarities to Romulus’ lieutenant were many. So much now made sense to Syra. The old man always had a softness toward her. Brutus would be greatly pleased to know that his loyal servant was indeed his Guardian as well.

In many lives, the greatest burden The Fated felt was that, once Awakened, they had to leave many they cared for behind without explanation. Those of the Order became your family. But in this life, Brutus would have an easy transition.

Syra leaned down and embraced the old woman. Mirta squeezed her tight, then released her.

“You will be gone from Rome by the time I return?” the hag asked.

Eyeing the moon rising in the night sky, Syra nodded. “If all goes well, Brutus and I will be away.”

She could see the pain and doubt in Mirta’s eyes. Syra softened her tone and stroked the old woman’s cheek. “The next time I Awaken, I want it spoken that you were the best of Guardians, Mirta. Do not forget that in your telling.”

Without looking back, Syra spurred her horse. Snorting, the stallion leapt forward and charged into a gallop. Head still spinning, Syra grabbed handfuls of mane and hung on for dear life.

CHAPTER 16

Brutus smoothed his toga and straightened his purple sash. With great care, he laced his red sandals. It was with great trepidation he clothed himself in the official garb of the Senate. This day might well be the last he ever donned the elegant uniform.

The conspirators thought that they could kill Caesar, then debate it upon the Curia floor afterward. Brutus had no such illusions. Chaos would descend, and Antony would call for their blood to mingle with Caesar’s. If he truly went through with this dark deed, Brutus might not come home this day or any other. Death was thick in the air on this Ides of March.

Without rousing anyone in the household, Brutus left through the garden gate. He eschewed The Sacred Way, opting for the less-conspicuous side roads. Brutus had no desire to meet anyone along the way. The sun was barely up, casting a waning light on the steep road as he made his way to the Forum. Despite the early hour, many senators were already assembled as Brutus passed through the bronze gates into the Curia.

Most of these senators were rabid supporters of Caesar—here to secure prime seats to see the general voted into kingship. There was a carnival-like atmosphere in the Senate chambers.

Did these neophytes not understand? At the least, the Republic was handing itself over to a man sick with power. At the worst, they would witness their idol’s death.

Avoiding the clot of senators near the floor, Brutus climbed the stairs and crossed to the back of the Curia. As he climbed down to his station, Brutus watched Cicero enter. The older man’s face was clearly painted with relief when he saw Brutus.

Cicero raised a hand in greeting, but Brutus did not respond in kind. Brutus’ presence did not necessarily mean his acceptance into the conspiracy. His heart was still torn. Brutus feared he would not know which way to lean until he set eyes upon the general for himself. Sitting down upon his rightful chair, Brutus settled in for the long wait until Caesar arrived for his coronation.

* * *

Syra’s horse was winded as they approached Rome’s west gate. She had ridden without rest the entire night and into the dawn. Looking at the long line of travelers, Syra urged her horse to the west. Even in daylight, she could scale the wall and be inside before the guards could catch her. Her head still spun with pain and confusion, but her heart had no such quarrel. She must reach Brutus before the assassination. Syra cared not about Caesar or even the impact of the assassination on Rome.

It was Brutus she was concerned for. The Fates could not be so cruel as to Awaken her, only to see Brutus be killed before they could consummate their bond. It seemed as the ages passed that she and her Fated had less and less time together before death stole them back into its cold embrace. This she would not let happen in this lifetime.

Dismounting, Syra slapped the horse’s rear, sending him galloping westward. Before the horse was discovered, she would be within the city. This massive wall might have been built to impress the enemy, but Syra found little trouble scurrying up the tiny footholds that littered the surface. Her muscles complained loudly at the abuse, but Syra ignored them.

The sun was well into the sky already. Brutus was in grave danger. Not yet Awakened, Brutus was vulnerable, like a sheep amongst wolves. How she cursed the Fates as her foot slipped yet again, slamming her knee against the hard wood. Why did the Fates let her leave Rome?

A shout arose as the horse was found, but Syra was already on the rampart, ducking behind the cover it provided. Luck was with her this morning, as no guards dotted this stretch of wall. Crouched, Syra headed to the stairs and was down them in a heartbeat. She was certain the Senate was already convened. She would need the speed of a cheetah to make it to the Curia in time.

Syra paused, as the thick wooden door was still slightly ajar. Had no one entered since she left? Slowing her haste, Syra felt for the bone-handled dagger buried within the folds of her shirt. She was so intent on the door that she did not hear the man behind her until he came down upon her head with a club.

Dizzy and off-balance, Syra tried to spin around, but another man sprang from the shadows and tackled her to the ground. Not yet fully Awakened herself, Syra’s body betrayed her. It was exhausted from too little sleep and too much information. When the second blow came, her body did not resist.

* * *

Brutus did not look up as another senator arrived. It was late in the morning, and the Curia was packed to the rafters with legislators. The room was abuzz with activity, yet the man who desperately wished to be king was late in his arrival.

“Brutus,” a hiss came from the darkened aisle.

Looking up, Brutus realized it was Longius who had just arrived. His brother-in-law, Cicero, Cassius, and two other supporters of Pompey were clustered in the shadows. Knowing that they would not stop their pestering until he joined them, Brutus set down his quill and rose to meet them.

“Caesar refuses to come to the Curia!” Longius stated, with rushed words.

Cicero’s face blanched. “Does he know of…”

“Nay. I do not think so. It is Calpurnia. She dreamt last night of his blood upon her hands. He capitulated to her wishes.”

“That sounds not like Caesar,” Cicero said as he looked behind him, seeming to search for an arresting party, but there was none.

“He looked ill, Cicero. The servant said he had three spasms already this morning. Antony is still trying to goad him into coming, but Caesar won’t even rise to attend Cleopatra at her palace.”

A wave of relief washed over Brutus. The Fates had taken this decision out of his hands. Perhaps Caesar would succumb on his own. Caesar might simply abandon his quest for the crown if he were so ill. Perhaps Brutus could have his quiet life back. If that were true, Brutus held a small glimmer of hope that he might seek out Syra. Could the Fates bestow such a favor upon him?

Brutus realized that everyone’s gaze had fallen upon him. “Then the day is over. We can retire to our homes.”

“Nay,” Cassius spat. “Brutus, you must convince him to come.”

Backing up a step, Brutus shook his head. Last night, he had imagined that Caesar might wish to leave this world and retire with the gods. It was very clear this morning that Julius dwelled firmly with the living. “It is over, Cassius.”

“It is not,” Cicero stated hurriedly. “You heard Suprinna yourself. The Ides is the day. We cannot shirk from our duty.”

Brutus backed another step. Now he was in the light of the Curia, leaving his fellow senators in the thick shadows of the corridor. “He must arrive on his own.”

Now that Brutus was far enough away, the others dared not speak their objections, otherwise they would risk the entire Curia hearing them. Walking back to his station, Brutus prayed that Caesar held fast. He wanted no blood on his hands this day.

* * *

Syra struggled against her bonds. They were not well fastened, but they were thick. She was not certain where she was being held, but it was near the Forum, for she could hear the shouts of bystanders waiting for Caesar’s arrival. Did these thugs not realize the danger all of Rome was in? And why ambush her, then let her live?

No one knew she was returning to the city. Syra’s brow creased. No one except Mirta. Had the old woman betrayed her? Was she a member of the Dark? Did the hag owe allegiance to the Order’s shadow?

“I knew you would return,” a shrill voice announced from the shadows.

Syra’s fears instantly evaporated as she recognized the woman’s voice. “Lylith.”

The thin woman emerged from the back of the room. “I knew you could not stay away from my husband.”

Syra did not bother to correct the woman. Lylith had never held claim to anything but Brutus’ name. His heart was promised to Syra for eternity.

But how could she explain to Lylith that the brittle woman was nothing more than a small blemish on the tapestry of history?

“What do you want?” Syra asked.

“Your head. To deliver to Brutus’ bedchamber. Let him sleep upon that.”

Syra did not believe the brittle woman had the nerve to order such a thing, but Lylith had a crackling look in her eye. Her cheeks were far more flushed than they had been with red blush. Syra had seen other tightly spun women crack, committing the worst atrocities without a blink. Lylith appeared close to that moment when sanity fled in the face of billowing rage.

Still working the ropes with her wrists, Syra tried to stall. “Lylith, I mean you no harm.”

“No harm!” The woman’s voice rose two octaves. “You have ruined me!”

The two thugs closed in upon Syra as Lylith’s eyes shone in the dim light. Syra stayed upon her knees, feigning resignation. “Please, Lylith.”

“That’s right, slave. Beg me. Beg me for your life.”

Even though it choked her throat, Syra continued the ruse while she unfastened the last of the knots. “I don’t want to die. I’ll leave and never come back.”

“Oh, you will never come back!” Lylith said as she motioned the men.

With a strong push, Syra was up and onto her feet. The two men had expected to prey upon a runaway slave. They had not anticipated her aggressive move. The man on the left tried to dodge out of the way, but Syra slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground.

Lylith’s screams echoed off the small room’s walls as Syra slammed her fist into the man’s face, knocking him unconscious. Spinning around, Syra was on her feet, dagger drawn, ready for the second attacker.

The thug glanced at Lylith, then back to Syra. After a heartbeat, the man darted from the room, leaving only Lylith and Syra. The once-confident Roman backed herself into the corner.

Her voice was softer than a mouse’s. “Please.”

Syra spun as the door to the room opened. In the doorway was Horat.

“What are you doing here?” Syra asked Brutus’ Guardian. Why would he be here rather than with his charge?

The servant’s eyebrows shot up as he surveyed the room. “I came to rescue you.”

Syra could not help but snort as she looked down upon the cowering Lylith. “I need no rescuing, but we must get to the Forum.”