An Agent for Brutus Read online

  Brutus made a scoffing sound. “Pride? We almost killed each other.”

  He remembered the hate blaring from the eyes of the man who he had once fought by his side and back to back. That day, Caesar’s face had contorted with rage. His hands had wrapped around his throat, tightening with every intent to choke the life out of his body.

  He stroked his beard. “You expect me to believe he wants to reconcile?”

  “I expect nothing, Mr. Bradford, sir.”

  “Brutus,” he responded. Her constant referral to him in such formal tones tautened the muscles along his spine. He’d not yet reached his fiftieth year. He wasn’t an old man.

  “Brutus,” she amended with a slight dip of her head. “My father wishes to see you.”

  He let silence fall between them as he considered her words. Caesar was a strategist. In their youth, Brutus had been the wild one to leap impulsively from one scheme to the next. When he’d become a privateer, he’d elected Caesar as his first mate and the crew had answered to them with due respect. Their temperaments complemented each other. While he may want to surge ahead, Caesar preferred to ponder before making any decision.

  Even if faced with death, his friend kept his composure. Drenched in blood or sweat, Caesar was a man of great serenity.

  Well, almost.

  The day that deep sea of serenity had fled was the day they almost killed each other.

  What plan did Caesar concoct? Why?

  Brutus eyed Tam. What part did this red hummingbird play in all of this?

  ***

  Tam’s legs trembled in delayed reaction as she stared at the closed door. Would he return or just leave her be?

  She waited, feeling the fierce pounding of her heart against her rib cage. Could Brutus also feel the effect of his nearness on her? Had he any idea of the wicked, forbidden delight she’d experienced trapped in his arms?

  Tam collapsed onto the bed. White Caesar had sought Brutus’s capitulation for years. She known of him ever since she was a child.

  “I’ll crush him,” her father had vowed more than once. White Caesar had constructed his life around this man’s demise. Nothing mattered more than knowing that if he strategized, he’d be able to one day bring Brutus to his knees.

  “Are you going to kill him, Father?” Tam had asked once.

  White Caesar had stared at her, the oddest look on his face. Even now, years later, Tam had been unable to determine exactly what that expression meant.

  “I will kill Brutus. But not in the way he thinks.” Her father had then come to her and in a rare moment of fatherly affection, lifted her into his arms, nuzzling her nose. “If you remember nothing else, Tam, remember this: revenge is best served cold.”

  A sharp pain streaked down her throat and shattered the memory.

  “Please, no,” she begged God. “Not now.”

  She wrapped her hands around her neck as if to choke herself. Her eyes squeezed shut as the telltale bulge ballooned in her neck. The flow of her breath narrowed.

  Dear God, is this it? Do I die now?

  She attempted to swallow but it was like trying to push down a whole grapefruit. More and more, the feeling increased and she tried to swallow but the grapefruit got bigger. Tears beaded in her eyes at the pain. She gritted her teeth.

  Please don’t let me die. Please.

  Finally, she squeezed her neck hard, and with a determined gulp, pushed the constriction away.

  Her shoulders drooped with the exhaustion of fighting for her breath. Her fingers gripped the edges of the bed. That lasted longer than before.

  Which meant that the lump had indeed grown.

  She could almost hear father breathe into her ear. “Bring him to me, Tam. I want the brute on his knees. If you do, I will pay for the surgery that will make you better.”

  She restrained the urge to weep. Emotional distress made her condition worse. Besides, what good would tears do?

  “I’m your daughter, Father,” she recalled asking that fateful day. “Surely that counts for something?”

  White Caesar had taken her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently. “It does count for something, Tam. And when that brute is on his knees before me, it will matter more.”

  A knock on the door sent a wild leaping thudding her chest. Had Brutus come back? No, that couldn’t be him. She had imparted the message from White Caesar. Brutus would have to make the decision whether he would visit her father.

  Tam called out. “Who is it?”

  “Marianne, Tam. May I come in?”

  She cinched the belt at her waist and smoothed the material with the palms of her hands. The jittery sensation had left her limbs and she felt composed enough to admit entrance. “Please.”

  Marianne opened the door. “You didn’t come down last evening for the meal, so I wanted to make sure you were doing well.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “Good. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour or so. After that, I’ll show you around.” Marianne’s hand drifted to her stomach and Tam asked, “May I inquire as to when you expect your little one?”

  The other woman smiled. “Sometime in the summer.”

  Despite everything, Tam shared in the woman’s happiness. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you when you come downstairs.”

  The door shut behind her. Tam sighed. She’d accepted in her life that she would never marry. White Caesar had never allowed her to be courted. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if he did. Her skin bore a strange, reddish hue to it. Her face had never been considered beautiful. Negro men found her too slender. White men found her too dark.

  What would it be like to be beautiful to a man like Brutus?

  She’d heard of his daughters and their exceptional looks over the years. Roseline—

  Tam shook her head. No, she wouldn’t give that woman another thought.

  Going over to her case, she retrieved her small catch of toiletries. As she set to close the case, something clattered to the floor. Her eyes drifted to where it landed in front of the bed.

  She stared.

  “I thought I left you at home,” she whispered as she gazed at the object.

  With hesitant fingers, she gripped the edges of the object and brought it to her.

  A miniature image of Brutus as a young man.

  Framed by an ornate design in bronze, it captured the man in his prime. His blond hair, robust features, and the stoic expression ruined by the mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “I’ve missed you,” she spoke to the image in a soft voice. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  For years, she’d held onto this small thing. It had dropped out of her father’s pocket one day. She’d seen it fall to the carpeted floor of the halls of their home as her father strode away to attend to whatever business had gained his attention. When she picked it up, she’d opened her mouth to give it back to White Caesar when she stayed the impulse. This was the man her father hated. After all she’d heard about him, she expected a man of dour expression and disposition.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. That night, she’d placed the small miniature away in the small box which contained her few treasures, and she decided to wait till the next morning to give it to White Caesar.

  However, her father never queried about it. Each day that passed, she held on to it.

  Some children had dolls to rock them to sleep and to comfort them in times of unease. Tam had the picture of the man her father hated to ease the sting of loneliness. With her father’s enemy, she shared her most private thoughts and motivations. Her ardent desires and fervent prayers.

  As womanhood lengthen and blossomed her body, her mind traveled down paths of love and marriage. To her, this silent image of Brutus Bradford had become what she wanted in all the world.

  When she’d left home against White Caesar’s wishes and in the wake of his fiery rage, she’d taken the miniature with her. No matter where she
went in the years away from home, Brutus Bradford traveled with her.

  Inspired by the tales of her father, it made complete sense that when the opportunity presented itself to join the Pinkerton agency, she leapt at the chance.

  Then, she felt the first signs of the lump at the back of her throat. Then the terrible diagnosis. She’d gone to her father for assistance after years of estrangement and he’d given her the proposition.

  “Bring me Brutus, Tam. That is what it will cost you.”

  Her finger caressed the edges of the frame. “How can I betray you to my father? How can I not?”

  With a sigh, she put the miniature back into the case. Gathering her small items so she could wash, she forcibly turned her mind to other things.

  She hoped soon that a case would be assigned to her. In the Chicago office, she’d spent most of the time involved in cases. Negro women were often seen in certain lights of servitude which helped in the areas of espionage.

  General Harriet Tubman had used that to her advantage when spying for the Union army during the War between the States. Tam much preferred the anonymity. She pulled at her skin of her throat.

  Dear God, please give me an assignment soon so I don’t have to bring Brutus to White Caesar.

  Even as the prayer echoed in her mind, she knew it was hopeless. If she did not bring Brutus to her father, he would not pay for the surgery that could save her life. She bit her lower lip and stared toward the window. Brutus, before he left, had asked how long he had to decide if he would visit her father.

  “Take as long as you need,” she’d said. White Caesar had made it clear that Brutus had to come to him when he wanted to. “If you sway him by revealing our bargain, then I will have to renege on the offer. No inducement from you, Tam.”

  Oh Brutus, please don’t take too long coming to your decision. My life depends on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Papa, who is this White Caesar?”

  Brutus enjoyed the company of his eldest as he sat by the massive fireplace in the medium size home they had procured when Arielle ceased her activities with the agency. Caleb continued with the agency to support them. In fact, he was out on assignment.

  Arielle bounced little Brutus on her knees, her fire gleamed eyes affixed on his face. “You have never spoken of him.”

  “He is an old friend, ma fille.”

  The baby gurgled and Brutus reached forward to tweak the babe’s nose. Little Brutus grabbed his finger, attempting to put the strange digit in his mouth.

  “Would you eat my finger, you little brute?” He joked with his grandson. The child laughed as if he understood. It was a heavenly sound that filled the small confines of the room. Brutus slid a mocking, reproachful glance at his daughter. “You must be starving, mon petit fils.”

  “Au contraire, Papa. You will not change the subject. Why have you never spoken of this old friend?”

  Brutus watched as the firelight danced upon the thick brown hair of his grandson. The baby sucked on his tiny fist, his pudgy cheeks moving up and down. He could remember the time when his eldest daughter did the same thing.

  “There are some things better left unsaid, ma cherie.”

  Some memories muddied and painful to share.

  “Then why did you mention this woman to me, Papa?”

  “I thought perhaps to enlist your assistance.”

  Arielle paused in her play with the child. “Oh?”

  “Oui. Perhaps you can discover what her true intentions are.”

  The problem had plagued him for a week, intruding on his rest and into his dreams. Filling his nocturnal rest with dark and disturbing images that jerked him awake.

  Tam Floyd had caused this turmoil in more ways than one.

  It wasn’t just the uncertainty that had to do with what possible machinations Caesar could be using her for. It was also the way he hadn’t been able to forget how she looked in that flimsy gown.

  He’d been without a wife for several years now. In all that time, he had neither the desire nor need to fill her place with another. Women of both good standing and not had offered to ease his physical needs. He’d rebuffed their seductress efforts. Roseline had more than satisfied him in every way a wife could.

  So why should this red hummingbird stir his senses after all this time?

  “I will admit, Papa, that I thought you have found a woman to care for.”

  His eyes lifted to her face, so much like her mother’s, but bearing its own unique traits. “You are the daughter of a goddess. I once worshipped this deity with every fiber of my being. How can I love a mere mortal after such veneration?”

  This red hummingbird that flutters on the edges of awareness will never make me forget my devotion to you, Roseline. No matter how tempting she presents herself.

  Dragging his fingers through his hair, he thought back to Caesar. He may not have seen his ‘old friend’ in years but he doubted very much that the man had changed. Could Caesar still be angry about what happened all those years ago? Surely two decades was long enough to cool the need for revenge.

  “Revenge is best served cold.” It was a statement Caesar was fond of saying.

  “Papa?”

  He blinked. “Ma cherie?”

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Little Brutus began to nuzzle at Arielle’s breast. “That little brute is hungry.”

  “Papa!” His daughter’s eyes flashed angrily, her nose flaring like that of an agitated horse. “Tell me.”

  Brutus shook his head. “You are very much your mother’s daughter.” He slapped his hands on his thighs in sudden decision. “Très bien. I will tell you. Caesar was once a prizefighter. I do not know much of his life before we met. What he deigned to tell me of it was that it was filled with much pain.”

  He recalled the sudden closed expression that would overcome Caesar’s face when a random statement or event would bring up something about his past. He’d never known if the man had family of any sort. Throughout the years before the rift, he’d never revealed anything. All Caesar had ever said was he fled enslavement by careful strategy and never looked back.

  “My life began the moment I escaped,” Caesar had once related. “Nothing beyond that moment exists.”

  “As it was, at fifteen years of age, Caesar had fought against men sometimes twice his size and sometimes his even match.” His mouth twitched. “Whenever he was introduced, he was announced as ‘White Caesar’?”

  “White Caesar?” Arielle frowned. “Why would—?”

  He grinned. “Because he boasted that once he bested a man, they wouldn’t see black, but white.”

  “I see,” Arielle rolled her eyes.

  “I had wagered against him and lost. I was a lad of fifteen and my pride had been thoroughly pummeled as the man White Caesar had ousted.”

  “What happened then?”

  “After the fight, I went around to the holding area where the other prizefighters were and I challenged him.”

  “You won, Papa?”

  “I lost. Miserably. After that we became friends.”

  Little Brutus nuzzled once more at Arielle’s chest, his face scrunching up.

  “You feed your son, ma cherie. I will come by another time.”

  “But Papa, what about this Tam person. How can I—”

  Shushing and then laughing at the furious expression of his grandson’s face, Brutus kissed Arielle on her forehead. “Do not worry about it, ma cherie. I will take care of it. Your life must now be concerned with your family.”

  “But you are my family, Papa.”

  “There are others who are closer to you now.”

  With her protests and little Brutus’s demands for nourishment ringing out behind him, he retrieved his hat and coat, left his daughter’s house and began his walk.

  Twilight had darkened the sky. Snowflakes flittered out in the gentle wind and landed on his coat. Reminisces of the past had opened the floodgate that led to memories.
Sifting through them as best he could, Brutus wondered if he should believe what Tam said. That her father truly wanted to reconcile.

  Could he in good conscience refuse this overture? Was the promise of healing the past worth the risk? To any other man, they would hurry to bring about peace. But most men were not Caesar. He never relinquished a grudge.

  “People too easily forget, Brutus,” Caesar had once said. “I won’t.”

  Tam’s face floated up in his mind. His instincts shouted that she was hiding more than she was revealing. What was it?

  Later that night, while caught in the dreamlike state between sleep and wakefulness he heard the words, Mon cher.

  “Roseline!” Brutus jerked awake in his bed. He glanced around the darkened confines of the room, sure to see the ghostly visage of his wife. Her voice calling to him had sounded so real, so tangible, he expected to see her lying by his side.

  Nothing. Only another empty wish.

  Pushing the covers away, he got up and walked to the desk and lit a candle. Taking out the small, leather bound book, he opened it up to a blank page.

  “Tonight, I dreamt of you again, mon amour. You were dressed in the dark blue gown I’d procured for your birthday. You seemed more beautiful than ever. Our guests were around us in delightful celebratory chaos. Our young Arielle ran amuck among the guests.”

  He paused in his writing, thinking of the memory from which the dream had taken form. Roseline later had revealed it was the night they conceived Brielle.

  “A red hummingbird appeared from thin air above us and then fluttered down in their delicate way to hover before us. It moved forward, its wings fluttering so fast it was but a blur. You looked at me and then the red hummingbird plucked at your right eye. And I swear, mon amour, I heard you call my name.

  “I keep thinking of his daughter’s words. That Caesar wishes to heal the rift between us. I find that incredible to believe. During this past week, I have wondered if my indecision rests on my own sense of guilt. Should I have reached out to Caesar during these past twenty years? Would it have made a difference if this overture of reconciliation was on my terms?”

  Resting the pen in the center of the journal and closing it up, he placed it back in the jar and then leaned against the hardwood chair.