The Ides of March (17 page)

And merciless.

Mustela had given him reason to hope. Perhaps all was not lost. If he could stop the message from reaching Rome, then everything would fall into place, just as it should.

As he was brooding over his thoughts, he wondered whether he shouldn’t have gone out on his own, got into the game personally. Why not defy fate himself, run the risk of dying on a mission fraught with such danger? But he hadn’t gone in the end. He hadn’t saddled his Pannonian steed, black as the cypresses that loomed over his villa. There was no specific reason, just a kind of paralysis. He was so full of bile he was powerless to make any decision, much less take any action. All he could do was pace back and forth like a lion in a cage, in a house whose decorations spoke only of defeat and humiliation.

Among his mementoes was a portrait of Cato, who, after being defeated at Thapsus, took his own life at Utica rather than live under a tyrant. He was portrayed dressed in a toga as he harangued the Senate. Quintilianus had been there, at that session, and he had been able to instruct the artist in such detail about the bearing of that great orator and patriot that the image was incredibly lifelike and very powerful.

Sergius Quintilianus was a superstitious man as well. In a corner of the room, on a carved wooden pedestal, stood a wax statue of Caius Julius Caesar decked out in full triumphal garb, his decorations a testament to his victories over other Romans, his booty for having spilt the blood of his fellow citizens. The statue was pierced by a number of long pins that Quintilianus scalded in the lamp flame before driving into the wax. It felt like sinking iron into flesh.

Now all he had to do was wait until his men intercepted those messengers. He had no doubt about the reason for such haste, even if Mustela had not explicitly confirmed it. The conspirators had finally decided on the day of reckoning. So it would be happening soon, even though the date remained a secret. Caesar’s murder.

Could that be true? The death . . . of Caesar!

The thought took root in his turbulent thoughts.

In front of his eyes was a small door that was closed.

Suddenly he got up and opened it. He found himself inside the little domestic sanctuary that he had dedicated to his fallen son, run through from front to back before his father’s eyes on the bloody field of Pharsalus.

He had had a statue crafted, at the base of which was an urn containing the boy’s ashes. Every now and then he entered that place of pain and spent some time there. He felt as though he could speak to his son and hear his voice answering him.

He said aloud, ‘I will go myself this time. I will be the one to avenge you, son. And if I fail, at least I’ll join you in Hades. I’ll have put an end to this unbearable life.’

It had become quite dark. Sergius Quintilianus went to the armoury and donned the armour in which he had fought all his battles. He went to the stable, put a bridle and bit on the black stallion and, having mounted, spurred him on.

After a while he had melted into the night, black as his own grief and hatred.

In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora duodecima

The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 11 March, five p.m.

I
T WAS STILL
coming down. Not quite as heavily and without the wind, but the steadily falling flakes continued to thicken the blanket of snow on the ground. In the inn’s courtyard, the servants were shovelling the snow into a pile, trying to clear as much of the paved area as possible. The sentry on guard up on the walkway was struck by a dark figure advancing on horseback, coming towards the station. He called his comrade on guard at the main gate, Baebius Carbo.

‘Hey, someone’s coming!’

‘Who is it?’ asked Carbo.

‘I don’t know. A big, heavy-set man on a fine horse. He’s heading this way. This place is funny all right. Not a living soul for days and days, then two in a row.’

‘All right. I’ll open up.’

Carbo pulled back the gate and the horseman entered.

‘I’m exhausted and hungry,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

‘There’s a tavern inside,’ replied Carbo. ‘If you’ve got the money.’

The man nodded. He handed his horse over to a servant with orders to dry him off, cover him with a blanket and give him some hay. He turned to Carbo then.

‘Terrible weather. Must be tough being on guard duty all night.’

‘We’re used to it,’ replied Carbo.

‘Many people come by here?’

‘Depends.’

‘A man of few words, I see.’

‘In my line of work we’re free with our fists, not with our tongues. But inside, if you’re interested, there’s a whore who does the exact opposite,’ replied Carbo.

‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m in a hurry. I’ll get something to eat then. See you later.’

He entered and Carbo watched him until he disappeared behind the door.

The legionary turned to his comrade. ‘That lout asks too many questions for my liking.’

‘He wanted to know if a lot of people had come by. He asked one question. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well, I say he’s asked one too many.’

The other guard shrugged and went back to his post on the walkway.

The traveller came out an hour later, claimed his horse and went towards the gate. Before mounting, he called out to Carbo, ‘Valiant soldier! Listen, have you seen anything strange out this way lately?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Carbo, thinking to himself, I was right about this bloke! The centurion would be proud of me.

‘Well, have you seen anyone whose behaviour struck you as being odd? Someone who was journeying in a great hurry, for example.’

Carbo drew his sword and pressed its point to the man’s throat. ‘Stop where you are!’ he shouted. ‘Spread your arms. If you make a move, you’re dead.’

‘What in Hades is wrong with you, you idiot?’

‘One more word, half a word, and I’ll slash you open from top to bottom like a billy goat.’

The man obeyed, snorting, and let himself be searched.

A moment later Carbo triumphantly pulled out a Celtic knife. ‘Look at this!’ he said to his comrade. ‘I told you I didn’t like this bloke and look at this. He’s armed.’

‘A lot of people are armed these days,’ said his friend sceptically.

‘Listen, boy, put down that sword and I’ll explain everything.’

Carbo called up loudly to the other guard, ‘Come down here. We have to interrogate him. This man is suspicious and I’ve been ordered to stop anyone who seems suspicious.’

‘You’ve been ordered? By whom?’ asked the other, but Carbo was unyielding.

‘Get over here, by Hercules!’

The prisoner was held at knifepoint, bound and taken to the guardhouse. Carbo lit a couple of lamps and diligently set about his task.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘My name is Rufus.’

‘Rufus what?’

‘Just Rufus. Isn’t that enough?’

‘Don’t try and be clever with me. Why were you armed?’

‘Because I’m on a mission for the Information Service. So will you untie me now? I do exactly what you’re doing: I obey orders given to me by the state and this is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Listen, I have to get moving. Wasting a single hour could be fatal. I’ve been racing through the mountains like a madman, trying to gain time, and now you have me trapped here. Hey, if you untie me right now I promise I won’t report you.’

‘You are in no condition to negotiate. I’m the one who decides here,’ replied Carbo without batting an eye.

The soldier who had been on guard duty with him broke in, ‘Listen, my friend, this fellow has me convinced. Why don’t we let him go? Interference with a state messenger in the line of duty can get you into real trouble.’

‘I want proof,’ insisted Carbo.

Rufus was furious with himself for having fallen so stupidly into the hands of an inexperienced recruit seeking to get himself promoted, but he tried to stay calm.

‘I have a badge but I’m not authorized to display it with my hands bound. If I lose it to anyone, I’ll be expelled from the service. Untie me and I’ll show it to you.’

Carbo muttered under his breath for a while, then said to his comrade, ‘All right, then. Untie him. I’m curious to see where he’s hiding this badge of his. I searched him and I didn’t find a thing.’

The other soldier obeyed and released the prisoner’s hands. Without missing a beat, the gigantic Celt landed a lethal punch and sent Carbo falling to the ground. He simultaneously grabbed his knife in a lightning-swift move and wheeled about to send its point straight at the other soldier’s throat before he had even realized what was happening.

‘Do you have questions to ask too?’ he said.

‘No,’ replied the soldier. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’

‘Good,’ said Rufus. ‘If you don’t need me here any longer, I’ll be on my way.’

With that, he jumped on his horse and rode off in the flurrying snow.

Carbo got up slowly, rubbing his swollen jaw. His opportunity for glory had ended ignominiously.

12

Romae, in aedibus L. Caesaris, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora decima

Rome, the home of Lucius Caesar, 11 March, three p.m.

C
AESAR LEFT
the bath chamber and went for his massage in the small thermal room that had been set aside for him in the home of his brother Lucius, on the Via Aventinus. Antistius sat opposite him with a linen towel around his loins and a tablet resting on his knees.

The masseur, a powerfully built man from Thrace, grabbed his shoulderblades and pulled them back, causing Caesar to utter a stifled moan of pain.

‘Ah! My back isn’t getting any better! I don’t know how I’ll be able to ride when I’m leading my troops in the East.’

Antistius looked up from his notes. ‘It’s riding too much on all your previous campaigns that got you into this fix. That’s why your back hurts.’

‘It was the Egyptian campaign that really did him in!’ snickered the masseur. ‘They say that the filly you rode there really put you to the test!’ He loosened his hold and let his patient fall back on to the bed.

‘Don’t talk rubbish, you idiot. Just shut up and worry about doing your job if you can,’ said Caesar.

The Thracian began massaging the muscles in his shoulders, then worked his way along the spinal column, dipping his hands now and then in a bowl of scented oil. The room was thick with steam and Antistius was sweating profusely, but he continued to make notes on his tablet.

Caesar raised his head and looked at him upside down. ‘What are you writing, Antistius?’ he asked.

‘Names.’

Caesar gestured to his masseur, who picked up his tools and left the room.

‘Names? What names?’

Antistius hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Names of my patients. I write down their illnesses, the progress made in therapy, any worsening of the symptoms . . .’

‘What you say is credible,’ replied Caesar. ‘But something tells me you’re lying.’

Antistius started slightly, but continued writing on the tablet. ‘Want to take a look?’

Caesar sat up on the bed and stared at him with his grey falcon’s eyes without managing to meet his gaze.

‘It’s like playing at dice, isn’t it? You’re inviting me to call you, to see your throw. But to see one has to raise the bet. What do you want, Antistius, to raise the cup? To show me your dice?’

‘Nothing, Caesar. It makes no sense to raise the bet. There’s nothing important to see.’

‘Well, then . . . I pass,’ said Caesar, turning his gaze to a fresco faded by the dampness on the wall. It depicted Theban king Pentheus being torn apart by the maenads.

A long silence followed, pierced by the loud squawks of a seagull fishing in the river.

Silius walked in and approached Caesar.

‘The guests will all be present,’ he said. ‘And there’s a message for you.’

‘News about my . . . cane?’ asked Caesar.

Silius shook his head as Antistius was saying, ‘You may have an aching back, Caesar, but you don’t need a cane. Not yet. And if you follow my advice you won’t be needing one for quite some time.’

Caesar got up, put on his military fatigue tunic and followed Silius out, under the perplexed, pensive gaze of his doctor. They walked towards the Domus Publica.

‘Unfortunately we haven’t heard anything further from Publius Sextius. Why are you so worried, if I may ask? You have already got the news you were waiting for. What more do you require from him?’

There was the slightest hint of jealousy in his tone.

‘You’re right, Silius, but I’ve been feeling the need to surround myself with people I trust completely and Publius Sextius is one of them. I want him here, now. When that first message came, I thought he’d be following soon after. It’s strange that he hasn’t arrived yet.’

They had reached the Domus, and Silius led the way to Caesar’s study. There, sitting on a silver tray, was the minuscule cylinder of leather, bearing a seal, that had just been delivered. It had a worn look. Caesar smiled.

Words rang in his mind: ‘Have it back, you villain!’

Obsessively: ‘Have it back, you villain!’

‘Have it back, you villain!’

It was Cato’s voice, ringing in his mind. Cato, who would kill himself at Utica. Caesar’s nightmare, the implacable ghost that haunted him like a Fury. And yet those words had brought to mind a situation more comic than tragic. It had happened twenty years ago, in the Senate. Cato had accused him of colluding with Catiline and his rebels in trying to overthrow the state, and as he was still speaking Caesar received a scroll in a leather case just like the one sitting now on his table. Cato had noticed the slave delivering it and he thundered, ‘Here is your proof ! This villain is receiving instructions from his accomplices before our eyes, in this very hall!’

Without batting an eye, Caesar had passed the missive directly to the outraged orator, who, upon opening it, realized it was a torrid letter of love from his sister Servilia, inviting Caesar to come to her house in her husband’s absence. In very explicit terms that left nothing to the imagination. Cato had thrown it at him, shouting, ‘Have it back, you villain!’