The Ides of March (30 page)

The entire Senate was afire with shouts and cries. Someone called out Cicero’s name.

Absent.

Outside, Antony turned instinctively towards the door, but Caius Trebonius’s hand nailed him to the wall.

‘Don’t. It’s all over by now.’

Antony pulled away from him and fled.

Caius Trebonius took his own dagger in hand and entered.

Caesar was still trying to defend himself, but they were all upon him. He was struck by Pontius Aquila, then Cassius Longinus, Casca again and Cimber, Ruga and Trebonius himself . . .

Each of them wanted to sink his dagger into Caesar’s flesh and they ended up hindering – even wounding – each other. Caesar was writhing about furiously, still roaring and spouting blood from his wounds. His garments had turned red and a vermilion pool was widening at his feet. With each move he made, the conspirators closed in further, slashing at him as at an animal caught in a trap. The more their victim became incapable of defending himself or even moving, the more their ferocity grew.

A last stab from Marcus Junius Brutus.

To the groin.

Caesar whispered something, looked him in the eye and gave up.

He pulled his toga over his head then, like a shroud, in a final attempt to save his dignity, and collapsed at the feet of Pompey’s statue.

The conspirators raised their bloody daggers high, shouting, ‘The tyrant is dead! You are free!’

But the senators were scrambling to get out, overturning their chairs and seeking a way to escape.

The few who remained, most of them part of the conspiracy, followed Cassius and Brutus through the city streets towards the Capitol, shouting to the odd frightened bystander, ‘You’re free! Romans, we have set you free!’

No one dared join them. Doors and window were bolted shut and shops were closed. Shock and panic spread.

An old beggar glanced up with rheumy eyes, his skin pink with scabies. It made no difference to him.

Romae, in Curia Pompeii, Id. Mart., hora sexta

Rome, Pompey’s Curia, 15 March, eleven a.m.

P
UBLIUS SEXTIUS
rode up at a gallop and leapt to the ground in front of the Curia stair. A trickle of blood came from the hall.

His heart contracted in his chest.

He walked up the steps one by one, certain of what had already happened, overwhelmed by a sense of infinite despair.

All his efforts had been in vain.

He took in the scene at once: Caesar’s disfigured body, his garments heavy with blood; the impassive expression of Pompey’s statue.

Silence. A bloody silence.

From behind the pedestal appeared Antistius, who had recognized him. His eyes were full of terror and tears.

‘Help me,’ he said.

Three of the four litter-bearers entered then, carrying the folding stretcher that was always kept inside the litter, in keeping with Antistius’s instructions. They set it on the floor.

Publius Sextius lifted the corpse by the shoulders and eased it on to the stretcher, as Antistius took the feet. They covered it as best they could with Caesar’s blood-soaked toga.

The litter-bearers then raised the makeshift bier and walked towards the exit.

Publius Sextius unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the air. He stiffened in a final salute to his commander as he was taken out of the Senate hall. At that same moment Caesar’s arm slipped from the stretcher and dangled in the air, swaying with every movement the bearers made. And that was the last image impressed on the mind of Publius Sextius, known as ‘the Cane’: the arm that had conquered the Celts and the Germans, the Hispanics and the Pontians, the Africans and the Egyptians, hanging limply from a lifeless body.

Viae Cassiae, ad VIII lapidem, Id. Mart., hora decima

The Via Cassia, eight miles from Rome, 15 March, three p.m.

R
UFUS
careered into the station at the eighth milestone, having pushed his steed to the limit. His destination, finally, after such a long struggle. He jumped to the ground and rushed past the two sentries, displaying his
speculator
badge.

‘Where is the commanding officer?’ he asked as he raced past.

‘Inside,’ replied one of the two.

Rufus entered and reported to the young decurion on duty. ‘Message from the service. Top priority and maximum urgency . . .’

The decurion rose to his feet.

‘The message is: “The Eagle is in danger.” ’

The decurion regarded him darkly.

‘The Eagle is dead,’ he replied.

20

Romae, in insula Tiberis, Id. Mart, hora undecima

Rome, the Tiber Island, 15 March, four p.m.

L
EPIDUS
, barricaded inside army headquarters, was meeting with his chiefs of staff to decide on the best way to proceed when Mark Antony was announced.

Filthy and sweating, dressed in a ragged cloak and looking like a beggar, the only remaining Roman consul was brought before Lepidus.

‘We know everything,’ said Lepidus. ‘I had hoped you would come here. Where have you been until now?’

‘Around. I was hiding. I saw what happened afterwards. Those idiots thought that if they went around shouting, “Freedom!” the people would run to their sides and applaud them as tyrantkillers. Instead, they came close to being murdered themselves when they started ranting against Caesar. They had to turn tail and run back to the Capitol, and as far as I know they’re still there, with the crowd outside calling for their blood. In any case, I’ve understood something important: they don’t know what to do. They don’t have a clue. None of them even started to think of what would happen afterwards. It’s incredible but it’s true.’

‘Fine,’ was Lepidus’s response. ‘The Ninth is camped just outside the city, in full combat order and in a state of alert. All it takes is one order from me and they’ll descend on Rome. We’ll rout them out one by one and—’

Antony raised his hand. ‘We need none of that, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. It would be a grave mistake to use the army. The people would be terrified and the Senate even more so. We’d find ourselves directly in a state of civil war, which is exactly what he strove to end once and for all. We’ll negotiate.’

‘Negotiate? Are you mad?’

‘I’m perfectly lucid and I’m telling you it’s the only sensible way to proceed. The people are completely disoriented and the Senate is panicking. The situation is on the verge of mayhem. We have to take the time to turn things around, in our favour, to fight the spread of terror, blood, despair. We must make Rome understand that Caesar’s legacy is still alive and will be perpetuated. Sending the army into the city would signal that the institutions are no longer capable of governing the state, and that would be a very bad message indeed. I say that tomorrow you have dinner with Brutus and I with Cassius.’

Lepidus listened incredulously as Antony explained exactly what he would ask from Brutus and what he could concede. He continued in a resolute tone, ‘We have to put them at ease, make them believe that we respect their ideals of liberty. More, that we share their ideals. Only when we are sure that the city is on our side will we go ahead with the counter-attack.’

Lepidus thought over Antony’s words in silence as his officers – six military tribunes in full battledress – looked on. At last, he said, ‘How am I to greet my guest, then? “Hail, Brutus, how did it go in the Senate this morning? Lively session, I hear. Do you want to wash your hands?” ’

‘This is no joke. If we make it known that the heads of the two opposing political factions are at dinner together, negotiating for the good of the people and the state, the situation will return to normal. Caesar’s legislation will be passed by the Senate – his allocations for the veterans and all the rest. And when the moment comes, we will make our moves. Don’t worry. Our time will come. You tell Brutus that we can share their point of view, at least in part, but that Caesar was our friend and that we have duties that must be performed, duties towards the army and the people. I’ll take care of the rest. Tomorrow I’ll be back and we can start planning our strategy.’

Lepidus nodded. ‘You are the consul. Your authority stands. We’ll do as you say, but if it were up to me—’

‘Fine.’ Antony cut his words short. ‘Send a maniple of legionaries immediately to garrison the Domus Publica. No one who is not a member of the family will be allowed access to Caesar’s body before the funeral. Now, give me some decent clothes and a mounted escort, of at least ten men.’

Lepidus had him accompanied to the officers’ quarters and provided him with what he needed.

Antony left with his escort and headed for the other side of the Tiber, where Caesar’s private villa was located.

He found it abandoned. Even the servants had fled. He crossed the
atrium
, then the peristyle and entered the servants’ quarters. He stopped in front of an iron door locked from the outside. He took a key from the hook above the door and opened it. Silius Salvidienus stepped out, looking uncertain and suspicious.

‘Caesar is dead,’ said Antony. ‘Nothing else matters any more.’

‘What?’ asked Silius incredulously, his eyes wide.

‘He was murdered, this morning at Pompey’s Curia. A plot hatched by Brutus and Cassius. They thought up a pretext to keep me outside. There was nothing I could do.’

Silius dropped his head without managing to say a word. His eyes filled with tears.

‘I loved him too,’ said Antony, ‘regardless of what you may think. Those who killed him will pay, I guarantee that. Go to him now. The time has come to say farewell.’

Silius gave him a bewildered look, his eyes glistening, and made his way slowly towards the door.

Antony left a couple of men from his escort to guard the villa and returned with the rest of the entourage to the other side of the Tiber, bound for home.

Romae, in Colle Capitolio, Id. Mart, hora duodecima

Rome, the Capitoline Hill, 15 March, five p.m.

C
AIUS CASCA
, on guard with several other armed men on the north side of the Capitol, could not believe his eyes when he saw the surviving consul, Mark Antony, walking up the Sacred Way with his sons, preceded by the flag of truce.

Casca ran back uphill to find his brother Publius.

‘Antony is willing to negotiate. He’s at the end of the street and he has his sons with him.’

‘What’s happening?’ asked Brutus as he saw them speaking.

‘Antony is willing to negotiate and has his sons with him,’ repeated Caius Casca. ‘Strange, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Go and see what he wants.’

The two brothers exited on to the north landing and began to make their way down, preceded by a flag of truce as well and by two armed men. They soon found themselves face to face with Antony. He was the first to speak.

‘Each one of us imagined that we were right to do what we did, but we must acknowledge that Rome is now in a state of utter confusion. The city could easily slide back into civil war, a disaster that must be avoided at any cost. The full powers of the republic must be restored, but in order for this to happen, we all have to return to the Senate, call a regular session and discuss how these matters can be dealt with.

‘I hereby propose that the Senate be convened to discuss the future order of the state. We have an entire legion camped outside the walls. We could use military force to decide the issue, but we prefer a rapid return to normality and an end to bloodshed. This very evening, I am expecting Cassius to join me for dinner at my house, and Brutus has been invited by Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. As a token and pledge of my good will, I will leave my sons with you.’

Publius turned to his brother. ‘Go and report to the others. I’ll wait for you here.’

Caius Casca nodded and returned to the top of the hill. Every now and then he turned to take in the two little groups halfway up the ramp who faced each other without moving, in total silence. The two boys sat on a little wall to the side and chatted with one another.

Cassius, Marcus and Decimus Brutus, Trebonius and the others accepted the conditions and Caius ran back down to where his brother was waiting to report that the proposal was acceptable. Antony bade his young sons farewell, embracing them and instructing them to behave well in his absence. He then mounted a horse and rode off.

Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart., prima vigilia

Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

S
ILIUS ENTERED
with a hesitant step, as if he were crossing into the other world. The door jambs were veiled in black. Cries and laments rose from inside. He walked through the
atrium
and reached the audience chamber, where Caesar was lying in state. Antistius had had his body washed and laid out, and his features had been composed by the undertakers to convey the solemnity of death.

Calpurnia, dressed in black, was weeping softly in a corner. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were pallid. She too had been defeated by a death that she had felt coming, that she had practically announced – unheeded, like Cassandra, by gods and men.

Antistius looked up but said nothing, because the stony expression on Silius’s face allowed no words. He walked away and went to sit on a bench leaning against the wall, his head low. Every attempt to stop this from happening, he thought, had been thwarted. He turned over the small, bloodied parchment scroll he held in his hands. It was Artemidorus’s warning, along with the complete list of the conspirators: the message that had never been opened, that had not saved Caesar’s life, due to a cruel trick of fate. Had Caesar found an instant to read it, the destiny of the world would have changed.

On the bench beside Antistius was a tablet with his notes, along with another message, the one that Artemidorus’s young friend had carried. In vain. On the tablet the doctor had diligently noted, as was his habit, a description of every wound. Caesar had suffered many of them, but the cuts that had penetrated his flesh, those that had drained him of the last drop of blood, were twenty-three in number.