The Ides of March

  Publius Sextius loomed over the little man. ‘Continue,’ he ordered.

  ‘They must have gone after him. We didn’t hear anything. It was the stable boy who found him when he went to change the bedding for the animals and he ran in to get me. When we arrived he was already dead. Then you showed up.’

  Publius Sextius glared at them as if deciding which of them to assault with his cane, but he saw only bewildered expressions, faces frozen with cold and fear.

  ‘We had nothing to do with it, centurion,’ swore the innkeeper, who had noticed the knotty symbol of Publius’s rank. ‘I promise you. I’ll make a written report and you can give it to the judge in town.’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ replied Publius Sextius brusquely. ‘Tell me what the two of them looked like.’

  ‘Oh, they were riding fine horses, they were well dressed and equipped, they wore boots of good leather. But they were as ugly as could be, jailbirds if you ask me. Hired assassins, most probably. This man had nothing valuable with him. And it doesn’t look like they stole anything from the satchel he was carrying, although it was clear they searched through it. They were looking for something, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Was there anything peculiar about their features?’

  ‘One of them had a slash across his right cheek, ten or twelve stitches wide, an old scar. The other was hairy as a bear and his bottom teeth protruded over the top ones. Really ugly, like I said. Looked like gladiators.’

  ‘You’re quite observant,’ noted Publius Sextius.

  ‘You have to be, doing the job I do.’

  ‘How far is it to the Arno river ferry?’

  ‘It’s over that way,’ said the innkeeper, pointing towards a path that headed down into the valley. ‘It won’t take more than two hours. You might even make it across in that time if you manage to wake up the ferryman and convince him to take you.’

  ‘Can you change my horse?’ asked Publius Sextius. ‘This one is done in. But he’s a fine animal. In a couple of days you’ll be able to use him again.’

  ‘All right,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Can you pay the fee?’

  ‘Yes, if it’s not too high. And I’ll leave you something to bury this poor wretch.’

  Publius Sextius quickly settled his negotiations with the innkeeper for changing his horse, adding enough for a modest funeral. He was deathly tired, the muscles in his arms and legs were seizing up with cramp and he had blisters on his inner thighs from riding so long. Still, he gritted his teeth; he’d known worse.

  He rode off, and after a while realized that the road had begun to descend. Well before dawn he heard the voice of the river flowing down below.

  In Monte Appennino, ad rivum vetus, a.d. IV Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

  The Apennine Mountains, at the old river, 12 March, third guard shift, one a.m.

  RUFUS, who had managed to escape the clutches of the over-zealous guard, was trying to make up for lost time by travelling as fast as he could along a short cut through the chestnut wood. The ride wasn’t too difficult, since the earth had been beaten flat by the passage of innumerable flocks of sheep and he was able to keep up a good pace. Every now and then he’d run into a tree trunk and a pile of snow would come crashing down on to his head or on to the horse’s neck, but that didn’t slow him down. The freshly fallen snow still reflected enough light and, if his calculations were right, the moon would be rising soon. He thought of Vibius, who was travelling just as fast as he was, towards the Via Flaminia, cutting straight across Italy to get there. He’d always arrived sooner than his comrade and he wasn’t going to be beaten this time either.

  A night bird, maybe a tawny owl, let out a hoot in the silent immensity of the surrounding mountains and Rufus muttered a magic spell under his breath.

  13

  Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora secunda

  Rome, the home of Brutus, 12 March, seven a.m.

  ARTEMIDORUS’S ROOM was worthy of a master of rhetoric who thrived on literature and Stoic philosophy. His capsa was filled to the brim with scrolls, each of which was classified and labelled. They were his wealth and well-being, and he would never dream of parting with them. He sat on a wooden chair with a dark leather seat and back. On his work table were a pitcher of water and a trayful of his favourite sweets prepared by one of the girls in the kitchen, a hedonistic weakness that he would swiftly spirit away whenever anyone knocked at his door.

  His relationship with the master of the house was based mainly on his imparting instruction in the technical skills required for speaking the Greek language, such as grammar and syntax, the correct pitch required for public discourse, the ability to cite the great authors with due emphasis. Brutus had never sought other knowledge from Artemidorus, had never asked for a lesson in the art of living or in philosophical meditation, and this made the Greek feel belittled, his intellectual status disparaged. Whenever he had attempted to introduce a loftier topic, Brutus had cut him off, making it clear that he didn t consider him equal to the task. This was the true reason Artemidorus despised his student and was willing to betray him. He couldn t stand feeling excluded, his status as a philosopher going unrecognized.

  Brutus’s stoic faith ran deep; he was nearly a fanatic. His idol, as everyone knew, was the uncle who had died at Utica. Cato, the patriot – the man who had preferred to die rather than to plead for his life, to give up his freedom.

  Brutus had joined Pompey’s cause before the Battle of Pharsalus and was proud of his choice. Although he held Pompey responsible for his father s death, at that moment he was the defender of the republic, and Brutus had been ready to set personal resentment aside and fight at his side.

  ARTEMIDORUS’S bedchamber communicated directly with his study and that morning, at dawn, as he was still half sleeping, he had heard noises. He went from his bed to his study and from there, standing at a slight distance from the window, he could see the little portico of the inner courtyard, where a group of people had gathered. It was almost impossible to recognize them, however, from that vantage point. He left his study, moving stealthily down a narrow corridor and into a tiny service yard. From there it was just a few steps to the latrine, which was separated from the courtyard where they’d chosen to meet by a flimsy wall that Artemidorus realized he could easily perforate with a stylus. There were areas where the urine fumes had eaten away the whitewash, leaving it paper thin. He could see, and hear, what was taking place on the other side.

  He put his eye to the hole he’d made in the wall, but his view was mostly blocked by the grey tunic of whoever was standing closest to it. He could clearly hear, on the other hand, the unmistakable timbre of Cassius’s voice addressing a man he called Rubius, then naming Trebonius and Petronius.

  This last man asked, ‘Where’s Antony?’

  ‘Antony,’ replied the man who had answered to the name of Trebonius, ‘must stay out of this. I’ve always said he shouldn’t be involved.’

  Another man, whom Artemidorus could not see, said, ‘Right. Which means we’ll leave him with a free hand to play whatever game he pleases. The old man says—’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ ordered Brutus’s distinct voice. ‘We all know what the old man thinks. But I’m convinced he’s wrong. There will be no discussion. Antony has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘No?’ shot back the man Brutus had hushed. ‘Antony is closer to him than anyone else. He is the consul in office, and he may well take the situation in hand once our man is eliminated.’

  ‘He won’t make a move,’ replied Brutus. ‘I’m sure of it. What do you think, Quintus?’

  ‘Quintus,’ reflected Artemidorus inside the latrine. ‘That must be Quintus Ligarius. Yes. The man who was accused of high treason before Caesar, who was defended by Cicero and absolved of his crime.’ He was becoming more certain with every passing moment that these were conspirators and they were plotting against Caesar. They meant to kill him.

  Quintus’s reply was muffled as the g
roup moved off through the garden, probably heading for Brutus’s study. He recognized again, at a distance, the voice of Cassius, who had visited the house countless times. He was thinking of going back to his room when he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on the gravel in the courtyard. He realized he was trapped. One of the men was coming to use the latrine and he would be caught in an embarrassing, and highly suspicious, position. He tried to act like a man who’d had an urgent call of nature so they wouldn’t imagine he was there for other reasons, but the footsteps suddenly stopped. Another step and then that one stopped as well.

  Voices.

  One belonged to Quintus Ligarius. ‘Do you want to know what I think, Cassius? I think the old man’s right.’

  ‘Yes, so do I. Antony is too dangerous. He must be eliminated as well. His first reaction will be to seek revenge and then to take our man’s place. Or vice versa. It won’t matter, will it?’

  Quintus had called this man Cassius, but his voice was quite different from the Cassius Artemidorus knew so well. So there must be two Cassiuses. This one must be . . . Of course, he’d met the man himself right there in Brutus’s house. They’d spoken about the theatre on an evening that Cicero had been present as well. So it must be Cassius Parmensis, then. Imagine that! The tragic poet meant to move from fiction to reality, to stain his hands with blood just as his characters dipped into the red lead oxide on stage.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ added Quintus Ligarius, ‘Brutus won’t hear of it and I don’t understand why.’

  ‘I think it has something to do with Caius Trebonius. I’ve heard that they met last year in Gaul after Caesar had won at Munda. Something happened then, but Trebonius has never wanted to talk about it. At least not with me. Perhaps a mutual pact of non-belligerence, or some other kind of alliance. I’m not sure.’

  ‘What does Brutus have to do with it?’ asked Cassius Parmensis.

  ‘That I don’t know. But he refuses to be reasonable about Antony. Not even the old man could convince him, even though he’s always said, “If you don’t kill him as well you’ll regret it!” And maybe the old man’s right.’

  ‘We’d better go back to the others,’ said Ligarius. ‘We’ve had more than enough time to take a couple of pisses.’

  As they walked away, Artemidorus had his heart in his mouth and tears in his eyes from breathing in the urine fumes. He finally let out a sigh of relief. He waited until the footsteps crossed the gravel, then echoed on the pavement of the peristyle, before slipping out of the latrine. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize that he’d left his hiding place too soon and had been seen by one of the two men.

  Having reached the safety of his study, Artemidorus sat down and took several long breaths, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. When he felt calm enough he went to a cabinet from which he took a jar full of salt. He dipped his hand into the white crystals and fished out a small roll of parchment paper on which he’d written a few names. He took his pen and added a few more:

  Cassius Parmensis

  Quintus Ligarius

  Rubrius . . .

  Caius Trebonius

  Petronius . . .

  He made a note at the side of his list: ‘The one they refer to as the “old man” must be Marcus Tullius Cicero. But he’s never been present. He must not be in on it.’

  He sprinkled some ashes on the fresh ink, rolled up the parchment and hid it in the salt jar.

  Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora quarta

  Rome, the home of Brutus, 12 March, nine a.m.

  ‘YOUR MOTHER has been out.’

  Porcia pronounced this very brief phrase with the tone of one proclaiming a death sentence. Brutus was sitting in his chair with his head between his hands. He was scowling and deep wrinkles were furrowing his brow, as usual of late. He got up slowly and placed both palms on his desktop.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that she escaped our watch and left the house.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday evening, towards sunset.’

  ‘So where did she go?’ asked Brutus in a monotone.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you, perhaps?’

  ‘How could I know? I have other things on my mind.’

  ‘Tell me that you don’t realize the seriousness of what I’m telling you! Your mother, for years, was Caesar’s mistress!’

  ‘That’s enough!’ burst out Brutus.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Porcia, bowing her head and softening her tone of voice. ‘But I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. Your mother may have met with Caesar and put him on his guard. Maybe she even told him about the conspiracy!’

  ‘My mother knows nothing.’

  ‘Your mother knows everything! Nothing escapes her, not the smallest detail. She has eyes and ears everywhere. By putting her under surveillance all you did was confirm her suspicions.’

  ‘If what you’re saying was true, the tyrant’s cut-throats would already be at our door.’

  ‘There’s still time. That may yet happen.’

  ‘No, it’s impossible. My mother would never betray me.’

  Porcia drew close and took one of his hands in hers. ‘Marcus Junius,’ she began, ‘do you really know so little about the heart of a woman? Don’t you know that a woman will stop at nothing to save the man she loves?’

  ‘Even having her son murdered?’

  ‘She knows that won’t happen. Why do you think Caesar spared your life after Pharsalus? Why has he always protected you so stubbornly whenever any of his men have demanded your head?’

  ‘Enough, I said!’ he repeated, furious.

  ‘For love of your mother. Last night she may have revealed the entire plan to him, asking him to spare you. Caesar would have assented. There’s nothing she could ask for that he wouldn’t give her.’

  ‘Please, that’s enough now,’ said Brutus again, trying to control his rage.

  ‘If you insist,’ replied Porcia. ‘But shutting me up won’t change anything. I will now tell you what I know. You are free to act as you feel best.’

  Brutus said nothing and Porcia started speaking again.

  ‘Your mother went out yesterday evening, towards sunset, with her head veiled. She left via the back door of the laundry, sending one of her serving maids to take her place in her chambers. She walked all the way to the Temple of Diana and she remained there for some time, an hour at least. Then she returned to the house, coming in the same way she’d gone out.’

  ‘How can you say she met Caesar?’

  ‘Who but him? Why else would she set up such an elaborate ruse? Your mother does not believe in the gods, so she certainly didn’t go to the temple to pray. The only plausible reason for her slipping out like that is that she wanted to see Caesar. And if she did, we are all in serious danger. I am ready to sacrifice myself, you know that. I’m not afraid. But if your plan fails, the republic will remain in the grips of a tyrant for years. Rome will be humiliated and will not be able to rise from the state of degradation she has fallen into. Brutus, forget that she is your mother. Think of her as a potential enemy of the state. I’ll go now and leave you to decide. There’s another person outside who wants to speak with you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Quintus Ligarius.’

  ‘Tell him to come in.’

  Porcia walked out, leaving behind the slightest hint of lavender, the only outward sign of her femininity.

  Quintus Ligarius walked in. ‘Please pardon this intrusion,’ he said before even taking a seat. ‘I was already halfway home when a thought and an image came to me, and I felt I must share them with you.’

  ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

  ‘When we were meeting early this morning, Cassius Parmensis and I saw a man leaving the latrine in great haste, a person we’ve often seen here in your home. Your Greek teacher, Artemidorus.’

  Brutus gave a wry smile. ‘Everyone needs the latrine now and then.’


  ‘Yes, but Cassius and I had been speaking in the courtyard and he may have heard something. The latrine door is quite thin.’

  ‘Were you speaking of something . . . important?’

  ‘We speak of nothing else these days, as you well know.’

  Brutus frowned. ‘I understand, but I certainly can’t—’

  ‘I’m not talking about taking drastic measures, obviously,’ replied Ligarius. ‘But I would increase surveillance until the day we’ve agreed upon, as a precaution. In other words, I would not allow him to leave this house for any reason. Your servants can take care of getting him anything he needs, for the moment.’

  Brutus nodded. ‘You’re right. We mustn’t run any further risks.’

  ‘Any further risks? Why, has something else happened?’ asked Quintus Ligarius in alarm.

  ‘No, not that I know of,’ lied Brutus.

  ‘Thank goodness for that. With every passing hour, things are becoming more dangerous for us. I’ll leave you, then. I’ll wait for your signal when the time comes.’

  ‘I’m seeing Cassius Longinus this afternoon. It seems he has important news. We may need to see each other again soon.’

  ‘You know where to find me,’ replied Ligarius as he left.

  As soon as he had gone, Brutus called in the head servant, a man named Canidius who had always been loyal to his father-in-law and was just as devoted now to his wife, Porcia. Brutus asked him to sit down and said that he had reason to be suspicious of Artemidorus and that the Greek mustn’t be allowed to leave the house for several days. He would inform them when this restriction on the man’s liberty was no longer necessary.

  ‘How far must I go in enforcing this?’ asked Canidius.

  ‘You must physically prevent him from leaving the house, if words do not suffice. But don t irritate him any more than necessary. Do not humiliate him and, above all, don’t arouse his suspicions.’