The Ides of March (3 page)

The second and third rows were filled with commoners, all hoping for their share of the flesh after the sacrifice. The members of the Flamen College of Pontiffs, in full ceremonial attire, filed out from the temple door.

As soon as the Pontifex Maximus, his face still hidden from sight, reached the altar, the sacrificial animal was brought forward: a calf, three or four months old, with budding horns. One of the servants accompanying the animal carried an axe, the other held a tray of
mola salsa
, a mixture of salt and emmer flour, the food of the Romans’ frugal ancestors. Caesar picked up a handful and sprinkled it on the calf’s head. At his signal, the heavy axe fell on its neck with a clean stroke. The head rolled to the ground and the body collapsed, blood pumping out.

Ever since his return from the last war in Spain, Silius couldn’t stand the smell of blood, not even if it came from an animal. He tried to take his mind off the scene by thinking about something else, but all he could come up with was the troubling news arriving from Syria and Spain, neither of which was completely pacified yet. He glanced up at the sky, which was getting darker and darker by the minute without dissolving into rain. Meanwhile, the thunder continued its low, distant roll over the mountains that were still capped with white.

The servants turned the calf on to its back and sliced open its chest and stomach so the haruspex could examine the bowels and interpret the omens.

Caesar was just a few steps away, seemingly absorbed in the scene, while his mind followed other paths. His illness. The expedition against the Parthians. The future of the state. Enemies still living, enemies who had died, the ghosts of the martyrs of the republic who tormented him still.

All at once, his gaze chanced upon on the calf’s lifeless head. He’d been careful to direct his eyes elsewhere, but that’s where they’d been drawn, against his will.

Silius glanced over at him at that moment and their eyes locked. Both were thinking of the same thing: of Pompey’s head, of the fixed stare of their great, defeated adversary. ‘They had it coming,’ was what Caesar always said, time and time again. True, he’d offered Pompey an out, more than once, and Pompey had always refused, but the thought of the decapitated head of the great Roman preserved in brine was something that would never cease to weigh heavily on his heart.

And his mind.

Gossips had even been known to suggest that the young Egyptian king Ptolemy XIII – the husband and brother of Cleopatra – had relieved Caesar of a thankless but inevitable task by killing Pompey himself, thus giving Caesar the chance to publicly spill a few tears over his former son-in-law.

The haruspex had plunged his hands into the bowels of the sacrificial calf and was searching through the steaming entrails. His confident gestures suddenly grew confused and dismay was apparent in his eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of panic and the onlookers were becoming aware that something had gone wrong. Caesar noticed as well and drew closer to the haruspex. Silius also approached, overcoming his revulsion for the blood and the stench of slaughter.

‘What is it?’ Caesar demanded of the haruspex. ‘What do you see?’

The ashen-faced priest stammered, ‘The heart . . . I can’t find the heart. It’s a terrible omen.’

‘Not another word from you,’ growled Caesar.

Setting aside his toga and rolling his tunic sleeves up past his elbows, he sank his hands resolutely into the animal’s chest cavity. A dark gurgle and, for an instant, Silius thought he saw an anguished look of uncertainty in Caesar’s eyes. But only for an instant.

Caesar had a basin of water brought to him so he could wash his hands and, as the water turned red, he said, ‘It was covered with fat and was a bit smaller than normal. This man is incompetent and that makes him dangerous. Get rid of him. Now burn it all,’ he ordered, to the consternation of the populace watching the sacrifice. ‘The gods mustn’t be kept waiting.’

He had another basin of water brought, finished washing and used the white linen cloth the servant held out to dry his hands.

Silius walked away and went up the steps towards the sanctuary portico. From there he could see the crowd of onlookers below, scattering and going off in different directions. A fire was lit on the altar and the animal was cut to pieces and burned in the flames. But that was of no interest to Silius; he wanted to be certain that the litter had been brought to the appointed place and that the men were alert and ready if needed.

He lingered, turning towards the interior of the temple, as if he meant to pay homage to the gods of the Triad standing straight and still in the shadows, when his attention was caught by something glittering on the purple cushion at the feet of the statue of Jupiter, so tall its head nearly touched the ceiling. It was a golden crown. A scroll carved into the wooden base proclaimed:
TO JUPITER, THE ONLY KING OF THE ROMANS
.

He glanced back at the altar, where Caesar was presiding over the traditional rites of purification which ended the sacrificial celebrations, then slowly walked down the steps again.

The clouds still hid the sun, parting here and there to show wisps of blue, only to close back instantly to grey. Silius waited on the south side of the steps until the Pontifex Maximus had finished saying his goodbyes and then accompanied him back to the Sacred Way. The litter followed at a respectful distance.

From the Forum they could hear the buzz of the crowd that had begun to gather for the day’s business: shouting from vendors in the shops and pedlars on the street, a magistrate at the Rostra calling for people’s attention.

‘If you found the heart, why didn’t you pull it out?’ asked Silius.

‘Rooting around in the bowels of a butchered animal is disgusting and there was no need for it. The animal was alive, so it must have had a heart. Do you know the story of Anaxagoras’s calf ?’

‘I don’t believe I do, Caesar.’

‘Back when Pericles was just entering politics, there was a calf born in Athens with a single horn. Pericles consulted a seer, who told him that it was an omen. It meant that the people’s party, which had two leaders, Pericles and Ephialtes, would soon be led by one man alone and that man would be Pericles. Anaxagoras the philosopher was immediately summoned to give his interpretation. He opened the animal’s skull straight away and examined its brain, where he found gross abnormalities. He explained the true reason why the calf was born with a single horn: because of a physical deformation. There’s always an explanation, Silius. And if we can’t find one, it doesn’t follow that we’re looking at a miracle, but simply at our own ignorance and inadequacy. All it means is that we are unable to understand the reasons for whatever has happened.’

They had reached the base of the ramp, where the Sacred Way turned right towards the Temple of Saturn and the basilica. Caesar went to sit under the Ficus Ruminalis, which was just coming into leaf. Tradition had it that Romulus and Remus had been nursed by the she-wolf under this very fig tree. Caesar often chose to sit there quietly and listen to what passers-by were saying, without letting himself be recognized.

‘What did you go into the temple for?’ Caesar asked suddenly. ‘To pray?’

‘To read an inscription,’ Silius replied. ‘An inscription in front of a golden crown. I’d always heard about it and I was curious to see it for myself. It’s the one everyone’s been talking about, isn’t it, commander?’

A few drops of rain thudded down and the smell of wet dust filled the air. Caesar didn’t move; he knew the shower would soon end. Others ran for shelter under the portico of the basilica.

‘Yes, that’s the one that people couldn’t stop talking about.’

‘You had sent me on a mission to Capua that day, and when I got back I was never really able to piece together what had actually happened. I heard at least half a dozen different versions.’

‘Which just goes to show that recovering the historical truth of an event is impossible. Not only is the power of each individual’s memory different, but the very thing that draws the attention of one man will completely escape that of another. Even if we concede that an individual is acting in good faith, he will remember only what made an impression on him, not what actually happened before his eyes. So, then, which version did you believe?’

‘That you were attending the Lupercalia festival. Antony offered you the king’s crown twice and twice you refused it. You arranged for it to be gifted to Jupiter, the only king of the Romans.’

‘False,’ replied Caesar.

Silius looked up in surprise. ‘Do you mean to say you accepted it?’

‘No. But that’s not the way it happened. If Antony had truly offered me the king’s crown, do you think he would have done so without obtaining my permission first, or without me asking him to do so?’

‘It’s possible that you asked him in order to have the opportunity of turning it down in front of a great number of people. To allay suspicions in a public way.’

‘That’s an intelligent explanation. You could dedicate yourself to politics, make a career of it, if you were a member of the senatorial or equestrian order.’

‘That’s not my intention, commander. I have the privilege of living next to you every day and that’s enough for me.’

‘Nonetheless, your hypothesis does not hit the mark. What happened was entirely unanticipated and the way events played out was governed, at least partly, by chance. I was seated at the tribune on the parade ground, the Campus Martius, watching the Lupercal priests running around with their strips of newly skinned goat hide and flicking them at women of fertile age. Antony was among them, running around half-naked . . .’

‘Hmm. I can’t imagine people were happy to see that.’

‘You’re right! You should have seen the faces of those who were around me. They were utterly scandalized. Cicero, most of all Cicero. You know, I can’t blame him. Antony is my fellow consul and – from time immemorial – no one has ever seen a consul, in office, running around half-naked with a goatskin whip in his hand. In any case, it wasn’t Antony who made the first move. It was Licinius, a friend of Cassius Longinus. Cassius himself was also there, along with Publius Casca.’

‘Don’t like any of them much,’ mused Silius.

Caesar seemed not to have heard and said, ‘Well, Licinius approached me and put the crown at my feet. The crowd in front of me started clapping wildly and calling for Lepidus, who was right there beside me, to place it on my head. But those who were further away – as soon as they realized what was happening – were in uproar. Believe me, it wasn’t applause or enthusiasm. They were yelling out in protest and outrage. Lepidus hesitated.’

Silius didn’t comment. Instead, he seemed to be watching a small group of acrobats who were entertaining passers-by and begging for coins.

Caesar continued, ‘I didn’t make a move. At this point Cassius approaches and puts the crown on my knees. The same reaction from the crowd – part applause and part booing. It’s clear that those who were clapping had been asked, and paid, to do so. I realized that the whole scene had been staged and I was determined to find out who was behind it. I looked into the faces of those around me, so I could commit them all to memory, but most of them were my friends – officers, veterans of my military campaigns, people I’d aided and assisted in every way.’

‘I wouldn’t count too much on their friendship if I were you,’ Silius remarked.

‘The crown Cassius had set on my lap started to slip and then fell to the ground. I won’t deny that I did nothing to stop it from slipping. And that was the crucial moment. I knew that the man who stooped to pick it up and offer it to me once again would be the man who was most bent on my ruin.’

Silius admired Caesar’s acumen and was struck by what an extraordinary man Caesar was. The spectre of the disease had faded entirely. Or at least no traces of the episode lingered. Caesar always became animated when he was talking about a critical moment in his life. The more difficult, or deceitful, or dangerous the game was, the more it excited him.

‘And?’ Silius prompted.

‘That was when the unforeseeable happened. Antony ran up at just that moment – panting, overheated, drenched in sweat. He saw the crown fall to the ground and he stopped. He picked it up, climbed the steps of the tribune and put it on my head. Can you believe it? He’d spoiled the whole thing! I was so furious I ripped it off my head and flung it away. But I knew I had to say something. An event of such significance could not end like that without a word from me. And so I got up, raised my hand to ask for silence and, when I had it, I said, “The Romans have no king but Jupiter and it is to him that I dedicate this crown.” Then applause thundered through the parade ground, waves of applause as my words reached those who were furthest away. But I was looking carefully at the faces of the people nearest me to see which of them looked disappointed or irritated by my gesture.’

‘Well? Who reacted?’

‘No one. I saw nothing of the sort. But I’m sure someone there was cursing fate, exactly as I was. Antony set off at a run again without even having realized what he’d done, I believe, and so the ceremony was ended. That’s the story behind the inscription you saw at the temple.’

Caesar rose to his feet then and began walking again towards the Domus. Silius was careful never to leave his side, well aware that he was Caesar’s only bodyguard. He was very worried by the fact that Caesar had dismissed his Hispanic guard and could not fathom why he’d decided to make such a move. Caesar’s explanation did not convince him, so he tried to imagine what might be behind such a decision. Perhaps the incident at the Lupercalia festival had influenced him: only kings – or tyrants – were accompanied by a personal guard. Perhaps, by making such a grand gesture, Caesar thought he could allay any suspicions about his ambitions. At least that explanation made sense. Silius hated to think that he’d given up on his bodyguard because of his illness. After all, Caesar was a nobleman, a man of power accustomed to risking it all, both in politics and on the battlefield. He would perceive suicide as a natural option if he felt that all was lost. But if he’d really rather die than show signs of weakness in public, he would surely use his own dagger.