Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (127 page)

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.

“
Impressive, is it not?” Antony intoned with reverence. It seemed all things insanely large and bold impressed the younger Roman. “There is not a larger Circus in all the world.”

Syra only nodded politely, not giving voice to the answer that sprang to her mind. There were no larger Circuses in the world, for there was no need. What other continent would waste such a stretch of fertile land? This immense field could feed an entire city of orphans, yet these Romans used it to run horses up and down, pulling men who thought themselves more important than a farmer dutifully pulling a plow.

A cheer rose from the far end of the track and rippled along the length of the field so that people were shouting, without yet seeing the speeding chariots. Once the crowd around their platform spotted the feather-crowned black stallions, the wood shook with enthusiasm. Syra feared her ears would never be quite the same as the volume seemed to only increase the closer the chariots approached. But these ornate chariots were not on the track to race.

Antony patted her knee, giving it a little squeeze before she pulled it discreetly away from his touch. “Be patient, my precious. Even though foreigners race this day, our gods must still be appeased.”

Marc was correct. She spied the tall figure that rose behind the driver—a marble statue of Jupiter. Atop his head was a gilded laurel wreath. So this was Rome’s god-King. Behind the impressive figure stood two feminine figures. Syra could only guess that the one carved in flowing robes with bracelets of gold was Juno, Jupiter’s queen. The second dressed in a simpler shift and wearing her characteristic helmet, was Minerva, the goddess the Greeks called Athena. Given enough time, she might come to respect a goddess such as this. Even from this far away. she could see the wisdom in the woman’s face and the strong sword-arm that carried an owl.

The next chariot held Rome’s patron gods. Mars and Venus stood side by side. The male statue carried a huge bronze shield that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. It seemed to dare anyone to find fault with its arrogant show of power. Alongside this bold statue stood the goddess Venus. How marble could show such tender curves was unknown to Syra. Whoever sculpted this marble was truly gifted by the gods themselves.

Syra’s attention was distracted by a harsh exhale from Brutus. When she glanced over, the Roman’s eyes were glued to the third chariot. It was too far away for Syra to make out the statue’s features.

Antony must have noticed Brutus’ distress, for his face glowed with pride. He addressed Syra, but his words were clearly aimed at the older Roman. “Finally, Caesar is taking his place amongst the gods.”

Brutus’ cheeks puffed in and out. Dangerous words seemed to dance on his lips, but it looked like anger choked his tongue. Syra feared an outburst, but the unnatural sound of wood cracking drowned out even this boisterous crowd. All heads turned back to the track as the first chariot rounded the wide corner. Another resounding
pop
echoed off the field. Voices softened, as if all were asking the same question that Syra thought.
What was happening?

In answer to their question, an axle broke on the lead chariot, and a wheel flew off, unbalancing the speeding chariot. The crowd jumped to its feet as the conveyance hit the track hard and shattered on impact. Statues tilted and tumbled into the dirt, directly in the path of the following chariots.

The second driver tried to steer his beasts hard to the right, but a wheel blocked his path. The horses spooked in opposite directions, breaking their yokes. As the chariot rode over the debris, it too broke apart, throwing the forbidden lovers, Mars and Venus, to the ground.

Caesar’s chariot fared no better. It ran straight into the shattered remains of the other carriages. In the blink of an eye, the three grand chariots were reduced to nothing more than rubble, surrounded by a cloud of dust.

It seemed that Caesar truly had joined his gods this day, only in a most inauspicious way.

* * *

Brutus could only stare in horror as the keepers of the Circus rushed out to untangle the disaster upon the track. The entire crowd held its breath as the roughly clothed men sifted through the mess. It did not go unnoticed by Brutus that this was the third such tragedy that had befallen a ceremony since Caesar had returned to Rome. Did the populace have any sense, as he did, that these events were related?

Finally, one of the workers shouted an acknowledgment, and they quickly righted the statue of Jupiter. His golden crown was slightly smashed upon one side, but overall the king of all gods survived well. In quick order the other statues were brought to their feet. The crowd greeted each deity’s return with hearty cheers. But then quiet settled over the field again.

Where was Caesar’s statue? Had it crumbled when it was so rudely thrown upon the field?

It took several heartbeats until another shout arose. Quickly, the other workers gathered around and lifted the statue. The men were all smiles, for they did not realize the damage to the marble until too late. Once righted, Caesar’s statue was there for all to see, only it was without its head. There was a sharp intake of breath so great around the field that it felt as if Hades had gasped and sucked all of the air from the Circus.

Brutus turned to see Antony’s reaction, only the younger Roman was nowhere to be found. How had the lieutenant disappeared without him noticing? It did not take long for Brutus to spot his wayward rival, as a shout, followed by wild cheering, came from the far end of the field. Of course, the near riot was for Antony. The younger Roman drove a chariot built for two horses, yet was pulled by four strong stallions. The chariot nearly flew down the course. It seemed that Marc was urged on by none other than Mercury himself.

Before this showing turned into Antony’s usual spectacle, Brutus turned to Syra. “Stay here. I will return shortly.”

Without waiting for her answer, Brutus started down the steps that led beneath the platform. He was headed to the stables. It was where the keeper would bring the damaged carriages. Perhaps there he would find answers to the questions that burned in his mind. He bounded down the steps two at a time and arrived at the stable amongst chaos.

A cheer rose from the crowd above, so jarring that the sound threatened to loosen a few boards overhead. Antony must have found Caesar’s head. The keeper shouted orders over the disarray, haranguing his workers into a near frenzy.

Brutus stepped up next to him. “Sir, please. We must be diligent. Slow these men.”

Who knew what manner of evidence was being trampled underfoot? The keeper’s face turned angry until he noticed Brutus’ purple and gold brooch that held his snowy white toga in place.

Still, the keeper’s tone was uncompromising. “I’m sorry, but we must. Antony has told them to start the races already.”

Leave it to Marc to worry more about the populace’s current mood than the facts. How Caesar ever elevated his charismatic lieutenant to the Chief Counselor’s position eluded Brutus. Antony was entrusted to protect Rome and the nation’s recently appointed leader from harm.

Could Marc not see that these acts of vandalism were but shadows of the hostility that Rome felt toward Caesar? Was Antony ignoring the signs, or could he truly not see them?

“
Stop! Keep that whole!” Brutus shouted to a worker who was cracking apart the remains of Jupiter’s chariot. The man looked confused, so Brutus rushed to his side. The keeper followed close at his heels.

“
We’ve got to make room for the next wave of charioteers,” the keeper explained, as Brutus leaned over the fractured remains of the wood.

Brutus rose to his full height and looked down on the man. “Not until we examine the chariot.”

The keeper’s eyes held contempt, but he dared not challenge a senator. “Make it quick,” he said before he strode off to help drag Minerva’s statue out of the entrance.

“
What are we looking for?” the worker asked.

If only he knew
, Brutus thought, but did not utter. This type of intrigue was foreign to him. Now if someone wished to ferret out embezzlement of funds from an oat sale, Brutus could be of great help. Here, trying to uncover a nefarious plot, he felt far outside his expertise.

The worker quickly tired of the inspection. “Looks like the driver made too quick a turn. We keep telling them to be careful with all that weight in back, but—”

“
May I?” a voice asked from behind.

Brutus turned to find Syra at his shoulder. The smell of her brilliant red hair drove any thoughts of intrigue from his mind. Why was she here, and more importantly, why did she wish to view the chariot?

Obviously, his answer was too slow in coming, for Syra asked again, “May I have a glance?”

Tongue still immobile from the calamity that Syra always inspired, Brutus simply stepped aside. The woman knelt down in a single fluid motion. She seemed especially interested in the splintered wood of the axle.

The worker commented as the Northerner pointed toward some hash marks on the bar. “Those are from skidding.”

“
Nay. They were made from a snub-nosed saw.”

“
No metal made those marks,” the worker grunted.

Syra directed her answer to Brutus. “The tip of the saw is broken off, and the teeth are bent. It gives the appearance of a scrape rather than a cut.”

Now the worker became agitated that a woman dared to tell him his job. “If that wood had been sawed through, the wheels would have spun off as soon as the horses lunged against the yoke.”

The Northerner either did not notice the man’s hostility or did not care, for she held Brutus’ gaze. “It is a slight weakness created in the wood. It would take the stress generated by weight shifting to the left to crack all the way through.”

Syra must have seen the unspoken question in Brutus’ eyes as she hurried on. “It is an old trick used against chariots. You sneak into camp just long enough to make this small weakness.” She pointed to the track. “Once one of the chariots crashes, it makes the drivers more hesitant to give the whip to the horse or lead the charge.” Syra wiped the wood dust from her hands as she rose. “The ploy can buy you precious seconds in battle.”

For not the first time, Brutus realized how little he knew of this woman. When would she have needed such a technique? He could not imagine her facing down an army of chariots. Not with the gentle curve of her hip to remind him of her plentiful womanhood. But there were the scars along her back. He had assumed that they came along the slave route. What life had she lived before being captured? He had never thought to ask. And now was not the time.

Brutus brought his mind to bear on the problem. “Sabotage, then?”

“
Aye. It seems the gods were not pleased with the Circus this day.”

While he too worried over the gods’ favor, Brutus was certain that no divine hand had intervened. Brutus was confident beyond question that this was the work of very mortal men. Men bent on the destruction of Rome.