The Ides of March (8 page)

‘No, you may not,’ replied Publius Sextius curtly. ‘Get moving instead.’

The attendant did as he was told and the centurion soon set off again. The temperature was falling rapidly because of the snow still covering great swathes of the mountainside, frosting the air as it swept down the icy gullies.

Publius Sextius told himself that he was worrying too much, that there was no reason to think anything was about to happen so soon. But it relieved him to know that other couriers were already on their way, making it much more probable that the message would reach its destination.

He hoped the couriers would be equal to the task. The state had been lacerated by rival factions for too long now; even the local administrations had been infiltrated by men of different and conflicting loyalties.

Any lingering reflections of the sunset had been doused and the sky, clear now and deep blue, twinkled with its brightest stars. A crescent moon took shape over the white crests of the Apennines and the horseman felt even more alone on the deserted road, his only company the pounding of the horse’s hoofs and its heavy breathing.

Mutatio ad Medias, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., prima vigilia

The Medias changing station, 8 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

A
S SOON AS
darkness fell, while the others were preparing for dinner and lamps flickered on inside and outside the inn to guide in any latecomers, the man who had been unloading the sacks of wheat climbed the stairs that led to the upper balcony.

His move did not escape the grey-caped man. Under cover of the shadows that lined the portico, he stealthily reached the stairs and crept up behind him without making a sound, stopping at a door that the man had left half open.

The building was topped by a kind of tower that rose about twenty feet over the rest of the construction. Once the wrestler had reached the upstairs balcony, he walked over to this tower and used the steps built into the wall to reach its top. Out of sight now, he took wood from a readied stack and lit a fire inside a sort of cast-iron basket supported by a tripod. The wind soon whipped up the flames. The wrestler walked to a little door on the western side of the tower, opened it and retrieved a sackcloth bundle. Inside was a large, polished bronze disc. He used this to project the light of the fire towards a point high on the Apennines where someone was hopefully waiting for his signal and would understand. He made wide gestures with his arms, alternating and repeating them. The air was becoming quite chilly and the wrestler felt his chest burning so close to the flames, while his back was freezing in the cold night that was getting blacker and blacker by the moment.

The clanking of dishes and drinking jugs wafted up from below, along with the good-natured bawling of the guests, but the man didn’t take his eyes off the white blanket of the mountain. Although it was surrounded by darkness, it emanated an immaculate glow all its own.

He finally made out a red spot that became bigger and bigger until it was a pulsing red globe. The signalman up on the summit had received his message and was responding.

Down below, the man in the grey cloak didn’t dare go up the tower stair: he had no desire to provoke a run-in with that animal. Even from the balcony, he could tell that the man was sending a signal, so he just flattened himself against the wall and waited for the reply.

In Monte Appennino, Lux Fidelis, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., prima vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, Faithful Light, 8 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

T
HE MAN AT
the signal station held a canvas screen that he raised and lowered over the fire, but the wind was picking up, making his task much more difficult. The terrace at the outpost was covered with icy snow and behind the building stretched a forest of fir trees that were bent under the weight of the recently fallen snow. A hatch suddenly opened in the floor and the station commander emerged, wrapped in a coarse woollen cloak with a fur-lined hood. He was an army officer, an engineer.

‘What are they sending?’ he asked.

The signalman leaned the tablet on which he’d written the message close to the light of the fire. ‘ “The Eagle is in danger.

Warn Cassia VIII.” Do you know what that means? Do you know who the Eagle is, commander?’

‘I do know and it means trouble. Terrible trouble. How many men have we got?’

‘Three, including the one who just sent us the signal.’

‘The wrestler?’

‘Yes, him, plus the two we have here.’

‘The wrestler will be leaving as soon as possible, if he hasn’t left already. The other two will set off immediately from here. They’re used to travelling at night. I’ll talk to them myself.’

The light pulsing from the top of the Medias tower stopped. Transmission of the message was complete.

The commander went back down the steps, pulling the wooden hatch shut after him. Three oil lamps illuminated the passageway that led to a landing from which the living quarters of the staff on duty at the station could be accessed. The two young men inside were both about thirty. The first, clearly a local, had a Celtic build and features. He was tall, blond and brawny, with iridescent blue eyes and long, fine hair. The second was a Daunian, from Apulia in the south. He wasn’t nearly as tall, his hair was sleek and dark and his black eyes sparkled. The first was called Rufus, the second Vibius. They used a strange jargon when speaking to each other, a mix of Latin and dialect from their native lands. There was probably no one else in the world who could have understood them.

They were eating bread and walnuts when their commander walked in. Jumping to their feet they swallowed quickly. They could see from the scowl on his face that the situation was serious.

‘Orders to deliver a message of the highest priority,’ he began. ‘Naturally, you won’t be alone. You know the protocol. Relying on light signals at this time of year with this bad weather is madness. If they tried it, it must mean they’re trying everything. A good courier is always the safest way. The message is simple. Easy to memorize, even for a couple of chumps like yourselves. “The Eagle is in danger.” ’

‘ “The Eagle is in danger”,’ they repeated in unison. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘The concise nature of the message leads me to believe it’s come from Nebula. Dirty son of a bitch, but he’s rarely wrong. I can’t tell you any more, but I want you to realize that the lives of a great number of men – perhaps the destinies of entire cities and even nations – depend on this message reaching its destination in time. It must be delivered orally to the old guard post at the eighth milestone on the Via Cassia. I don’t care how you get there – take any damned route you please – and I don’t care if you have to sweat blood to make it, but for all the demons in Hades, before you breathe your last, you must deliver this fucking message. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, commander.’

‘Someone is already taking care of getting your gear together. The horses will be ready as I finish speaking. You will take off in two different directions. You can decide between you which routes you’re going to take. I’m not saying you have to remain on a single road the whole time, but since you’ll be needing to change horses, you will have to use a road as your reference point. For the sake of security, I do not know the itineraries of any other couriers, but it’s possible that they are different from your own. If necessary use your
speculator
badge to identify yourself as a scout, although it’s best to complete the mission incognito if possible. The system is designed to guarantee that at least one message arrives, if the other attempts fail for any reason.’

‘The reason,’ said Rufus, ‘being that the messenger is killed. Correct, commander?’

‘That is correct,’ replied his superior. ‘Those are the rules of the game.’

‘Who, besides us, may be aware of the operation?’ asked Vibius.

‘No one, as far as I understand. But that’s not to say we know everything we’d like to know, and what we think most probable may be the furthest from the truth. So keep your eyes and ears open. Your order is this and only this: deliver the message at any cost.’

Taking leave of the commander, the two men went down the stairs that led to the inner courtyard, where a couple of sorrels had been kitted out for a long journey: blankets, knapsacks containing food, flasks containing watered-down wine, moneybelts. A servant helped them put on their reinforced leather corselets, thick enough to stop an arrow from getting to the heart but light enough to permit agile movement. A Celtic dagger was the standard weapon for this type of mission. The baggage was completely covered by a coarse woollen cloak, good in the cold, good in the heat.

They walked their horses out through the main gate, where two lanterns cast a yellow halo on to snow soiled by mud and horse dung.

‘What now?’ asked Vibius. ‘Shall we separate here or ride down to the bottom of the valley together?’

Rufus stroked the neck of his horse, who was restlessly pawing the ground and snorting big puffs of steam from his nostrils.

‘That would be most logical and I’d greatly prefer it. But if they sent the signal in this direction it’s because they expect at least one of us to take the short cut across the ridge in the direction of the Via Flaminia. It’s tough going but will save a good half-day’s journey. Sometimes half a day can make all the difference.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Vibius. ‘So what do we use? A straw or a coin?’

‘Straw burns, coins endure,’ replied Rufus, and tossed a shiny Caius Marius penny into the air. It glittered like gold.

‘Heads you get the short cut,’ said Vibius.

Rufus clapped his hand down over the coin in his left palm, then looked.

‘Horses!’ he said, showing Vibius the
quadriga
that adorned the back of the coin. ‘You win. I’ll take the Via Flaminia Minor.’

The two friends looked each other straight in the eye for a moment, as they drew their horses close and gave each other a big punch on the right shoulder.

‘Watch out for cow shit!’ exclaimed Vibius, reciting his favourite charm against the evil eye.

‘Same to you, you cut-throat!’ shot back Rufus.

‘See you when this is all over,’ Vibius promised.

‘If worse comes to worst,’ snickered Rufus, ‘there’s always Pullus. His mother must have been a goat. He’ll reach us wherever we get stuck.’

He touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and set off along a barely visible trail that descended the mountainside, leading to the valley and the footbridge that crossed the Reno, which was glinting like a sword under the moon.

Vibius went straight up the slope instead and headed towards the ridge, where he would find the short cut through the mountains that led towards Arezzo.

6

Romae, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora sexta

Rome, 9 March, eleven a.m.

Titus Pomponius Atticus to his Marcus Tullius, hail!

I received your letter the other day and have meditated at length on what you’ve told me. The thoughts which trouble you in this crucial moment are many and of a complex nature. Nonetheless I feel that you cannot shun the role that the best men of this city have ascribed to you. You must not let it worry you that your merits in the course of past events have gone unacknowledged in Brutus’s writings, which I myself have read recently. What he says is dictated by the love he feels for his wife, a woman who is as wise as she is charming, but above all the daughter of so great a father, whom she held in such high esteem. Whoever loves his homeland and is grateful to those who defend it certainly knows what a debt of gratitude is owed to you and knows that you are a model to be held up to the new generations that will one day succeed us.

If I can, I will pay you a visit shortly after you have received this letter, entrusted to the messenger you know so well.

Take care of yourself.

M
ARCUS
T
ULLIUS
C
ICERO
placed his friend’s letter, which he’d received the day before, in a drawer with others and sighed. He hoped the promised visit would take place soon. He’d never felt such a great need to speak to Titus Pomponius in private, to have the comfort of his opinion, his advice. He knew that his friend had long ago decided to keep out of the civil conflict and in the end he couldn’t blame him. The confusion had been enormous, decisions difficult and consequences almost always unpredictable, and the situation had certainly not improved with Caesar assuming full powers.

The conqueror of Gaul had seized upon completely marginal events as a pretext for invading the metropolitan territory of the republic at the head of an army, committing an act that violated every law, tradition and sacred boundary of Rome. At first Cicero had seen Caesar’s assumption of power as the lesser evil and had even gone so far as to declare, in one of the last sessions of the Senate, that if Caesar were in danger the senators themselves would be the first to defend his life. But now he understood that discontent was rife and he realized that the defence of civil liberties could not be subordinated to the desire – no matter how legitimate and understandable – for peace and tranquillity that most of Rome’s citizens yearned for.

Just then his secretary walked in. Tiro had been his right hand for many years and now, at the age of fifty-nine, he enjoyed Cicero’s complete and unconditional trust. Nearly bald, he walked with a limp because of arthritis in his right hip and appeared older than he was.

‘Master,’ he began.

‘You’ve been a free man for a long time now, Tiro, you mustn’t call me master. I’ve always asked you not to.’

‘I wouldn’t know how else to address you. The habits of a lifetime become part of us,’ the secretary replied calmly.

Cicero shook his head with the hint of a smile. ‘What is it, Tiro?’

‘Visitors, sir. A litter is approaching from down the road. If my eyes don’t deceive me, I would say it is Titus Pomponius.’