The Ides of March

  ‘Answer me, you drunk bastards, answer me,’ growled Publius Sextius, teeth clenched, but no light shone back over the Apennines, apart from the bluish flashes of lightning.

  He left the signalling tower and went down to the room below, spreading the map that Nebula had given him out on the table. He placed a lamp on the map and ran his finger along the route to the point at which it intersected with the Via Cassia.

  ‘Too far,’ he murmured. ‘Too far off my road. I would never make it in time. May fortune assist you, lads.’

  He walked out to where his horse was waiting and rode off.

  In truth they had received his signals up at the station, but could do nothing but remain inside the building because the storm was lashing the post with unnatural force. Clouds heavy with hail, edged in white, shot through with flashes and bolts of lightning, were unleashing a torrent of freezing rain on the signalling tower. Clumps of ice exploded upon impact with the stone paving slabs, shattering into thousands of pieces that glittered like diamonds in the sudden bursts of light. The whole building resounded with the incessant clatter, as if it were being targeted by a thousand catapults.

  They could see the signals from the small splayed windows of the tower and the station master wondered what on earth could be happening in Rome, for such contradictory messages to be arriving in such quick succession. But the long wake of the civil wars had taught him not to ask too many questions and to follow orders as long as the accompanying code was exact. This new message was to annul instructions to intercept two speculatores and was to be put into effect immediately. The original message had been an order to kill, and the chief realized that he’d have to send a man out to stop it before it reached its destination. Hardly a man, in reality. The only person he could send was a boy – skinny, almost skeletal, with a perpetually bewildered expression. He had not the faintest hint of a beard, but a light downy fuzz like a chick’s. That’s why he was called Pullus.

  He had neither father nor mother – or rather, he did, like anyone else, but no one knew who they were. He’d been raised by the army and was happy to do anything he could to make himself useful. He’d been a stable boy, baker, cook, dishwasher. But what he did really well was run. He could run for entire days and nights, light as a feather, animated by an energy that came out of nowhere. He couldn’t run for as long as a horse, but when it came to getting around on steep, rocky terrain, Pullus was second to none, man or beast. He climbed like a goat, scaled mountain slopes like an antelope and leapt from one cliff to another with an agility and grace that contrasted greatly with his frail, ungainly appearance.

  The station master handed him a ciphered document with his seal and ordered him never to stop until he succeeded in intercepting the original message. His chances were good, as he would be aided by the bad weather and by his unequalled familiarity with every nook and cranny of the territory, which would allow him to shorten and simplify each leg of the journey.

  Pullus left at once, in the rain and hail, holding his shield over his head. The onslaught that was hammering away at his lid stopped before long and he was able to rid himself of the extra weight. Hiding the shield behind a bush, he ran on unhindered at even a faster clip.

  Pullus never hesitated or paused. He ran down rain-flooded paths, raising splashes of water that soaked him to the neck. He ran through the barren fields, under the leafless trees, through the sleepy villages. Dogs barked at the approach of his swift, light stride, taking him for the king of thieves, but they soon fell silent as his footfalls faded into the same nothingness they had materialized from.

  He pondered his mission as he raced on, the young, tireless runner. Could he save both of them? If he had to choose, one would have to die so the other could be saved, but which one? He thought mostly about who the speculatores might actually be, and after discarding a few hypotheses, he was down to two names, the most probable. Two faces, two voices, two friends among the very few that he had. Including the dog at the station and the goat that he milked every morning.

  Vibius and Rufus. He was willing to bet his goat on it. If he was right, there’d be no need to make a choice, because he knew how they moved. The flip of a coin decided who would go where and how. Knowing who they were made it easier to calculate. They had certainly left Lux Fidelis over five days ago, on two of which the weather had been bad. They would have begun along the high course of the Reno. The one heading east would have had it easy at first and then found things more difficult; the one who had taken the mountain route would have made slow progress at first and then been much quicker. Pullus decided to try to reach the former first, whichever of the two that was, and took off even more swiftly through fields and forests, following the briefest route possible thanks to his innate sense of direction in the dark, moving by instinct, like a blind man.

  By morning he was on the street at a few miles from an important changing station. This was where he would wait. If his hunch proved to be right, one of the two would show up here before evening. He entered the mansio and handed over the coded message that annulled the first order. He gave instructions to refer the counter-order to all the remaining stations up to Rome. A messenger departed at once.

  Having completed his mission, he would have been free to return to Lux Insomnis, but he wasn’t ready for that. If by chance the two speculatores were his friends, he preferred to wait and be sure that his message had been delivered in time and that at least one of them had been saved.

  It had stopped raining, but Pullus was soaked through and shivering with the cold. Every now and then he would run around in a circle to keep warm. He kept scanning the horizon, the rain-damp street that came from the north. A mule-drawn cart passed and its driver cast a curious glance at the odd bloke running around a milestone. A shepherd passed as well, with a flock of sheep, and then a peasant pushing a heifer forward along the loose earth on the left-hand side of the road. The traffic increased as the day wore on, but no one that fitted the description of either of his friends put in an appearance. It was late in the afternoon when he saw a horseman followed by another man on horseback as well, lagging behind him. The second seemed to be advancing with some difficulty.

  The first stopped to let the second catch up and Pullus recognized him: Rufus!

  ‘Rufus!’ he yelled as loudly as he could. ‘Rufus!’

  The horseman jumped to the ground and ran up to him. ‘Pulle! I knew we’d run into you!’ He hugged the boy, realizing he could count every rib and vertebra, scrawny as he was.

  The second horseman rode up as well: Vibius. He showed signs of a violent altercation and his horse seemed exhausted. He must have kept up a gallop for a very long stretch indeed.

  ‘Why are the two of you together?’ asked Pullus.

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ replied Vibius, ‘as I was approaching the fifth mansio, two armed men tried to stop me. I fought back but the two of them together were too much for me. I got away and raced off as fast as I could until I lost them. At that point, I decided to find Rufus. We always have a contingency plan and a second meeting point. But let me tell you, you look terrible, boy! Cover up or you’ll catch your death!’

  He took a dry blanket from his bag and tossed it over the boy’s shoulders. Pullus regained a little colour, and a little voice.

  ‘We received two messages up at the station. The first was to intercept two speculatores at any cost. I wondered whether it might be the two of you. But then we got a second message, last night, which began with the army code and cancelled the first order. We couldn’t answer because of the bad weather, but I took off right away and didn’t stop until I got here. A messenger set off with the counter-order this morning, so you shouldn’t have any problems.’

  ‘I always knew we could count on you,’ said Rufus. ‘But who do you think gave the counter-order?’

  ‘I don’t know. The commander didn’t give me time to ask.’ Then he added, ‘What will you do now?’

  Vibius turned to his comrade. ‘Y
ou go on. I’ll leave you my horse. He’ll recover quickly if he’s not carrying a rider. You can alternate the two and cover a greater distance.’

  Rufus tied the second horse to the harness of his own as Vibius took the provisions satchel and the flask. They said goodbye.

  ‘Who knows, maybe none of this will have been necessary,’ said Vibius.

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ replied Rufus.

  ‘Good luck, my friend.’

  ‘Good luck to the two of you! Be careful.’

  ‘No one will notice a couple of men on foot,’ replied Pullus with a tired smile.

  Rufus jumped on to his horse and took off, pulling along the riderless horse of his comrade. Meanwhile, Vibius and Pullus set off down another road.

  Caupona Fabulli ad flumen Tiberim, pridie Id. Mart., hora nona

  Fabullus’s Inn at the Tiber River, 14 March, two p.m.

  PUBLIUS SEXTIUS recognized the inn from a distance and he stopped. The weather had got better but was not stable and from the way the sky was looking he guessed it would worsen again that night. He had to get as close as possible to his destination so as not to lose another day. But would it make a difference, one day more or less? His long experience on the battlefields and roads of the empire had taught him that very often a mere hour gained or lost could indeed decide the outcome of a battle or even of a war. In any case, it was best to arrive early to whatever event destiny had prepared for you. If the event was favourable, nothing would change. If it was unfavourable – or catastrophic – there might be time to prevent it from happening, or at least limit the damage.

  What he desired most keenly was to stretch out on a bed and relax limbs tormented by the strain of endless riding. Then to eat something and drink a cup of strong red wine. But he decided to lie down on the ground under the shelter of an ancient olive tree, to eat a piece of cheese and soften a chunk of dry bread with water. Better this than risk another unpleasant encounter after everything that had already happened to him.

  He slept as he was used to sleeping in these circumstances, without ever drifting into unconsciousness and without losing the sense of time passing. He had left his horse free to graze, certain it would not wander off. When he felt a little stronger, he called the horse with a whistle and started off again.

  He headed in the same direction for a long while, avoiding places where too many people were to be found, until he was forced to return to the Via Cassia so as to be sure to find a way to cross the water. One could always count on a bridge of stone, at least; they never collapsed.

  The terrain was very rough and he couldn’t stray too far from the road, although he mostly stayed on the loose-surfaced track at the side of the stone pavement. It was much faster that way and he felt that he was making up for lost time. Fortune seemed to be smiling on him now, he thought, as he managed to change his horse at a farm near Sutri without drawing attention to himself. The breeder accepted the difference in price between the horse Publius Sextius was leaving and the one he was buying, and he was free to set off once again at a fast pace. He was bound for the banks of the Tiber, beyond the Via Cassia, where he’d be able to board a ship at last.

  He could feel that his mission was drawing to an end. He would soon be able to relay his message and to report directly to Caesar.

  But all at once, as the sun was about to sink behind the hills, a horseman appeared in the middle of the road, barring his way. In his hand he held a drawn sword.

  At first he thought of turning around, but two things stopped him. One, he’d never done such a thing in his whole life; he’d never turned tail. And two, he was curious. Curious to see who dared to take on Publius Sextius alone. Traitor or foe, whichever he was, perhaps he deserved this confrontation.

  He slowed his horse to a walk, drew his own sword and advanced down the middle of the road. The other man did the same. When he was about fifty feet away, Publius halted his horse and spoke first.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘What do you care who I am when you are about to die?’

  ‘Pure curiosity.’

  His adversary had stopped as well. ‘My name is Sergius Quintilianus. Does that tell you anything?’

  His left hand pulled firmly at the bit, as his horse was snorting and stamping at the sight of the other stallion opposing him. The horseman rode forward until he was very close.

  ‘Pharsalus,’ he added. ‘Do you remember now?’

  Publius recognized him. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I do. I spared your life on the battlefield.’

  ‘After having killed my son, who stood before you defending his wounded father.’

  ‘You know what it’s like in the heat of the battle, man. There’s no time to make distinctions. When I realized what had happened, I held back. Let me go on my way now. We all have our own nightmares.’

  ‘You should have killed me as well. You don’t heal from a wound like that. By sparing my life you doubly humiliated me.’

  ‘You could have killed yourself. You had a weapon.’

  ‘I was about to do just that, Publius Sextius, but in the brief time I took to reflect, my hatred welled up over all else. I decided to live so I could find you and kill you. After such a long time, fortune has made the wait worth my while.’

  He pointed westward at the sun, which was nearly touching the line of the hills. ‘Before it drops below the horizon, your blood will have placated the manes of my dead boy.’

  ‘I must reach Rome. If you try to prevent me, I’ll have to kill you.’

  ‘Then use that sword you hold in your hand!’ shouted Sergius Quintilianus, urging his horse forward.

  Publius had anticipated the attack and was not taken by surprise. He rushed forward himself and met his opponent’s blows with unfaltering skill and strength. The blades crossed high and low with deafening crashes, sending sparks flying as one screeched along the edge of the other. Sergius lunged once, twice, three times, seeking his adversary’s heart. Unable to reach it, he disengaged, turned around and charged forward again with savage determination. Publius dodged him at the last moment but managed to strike him at the waist with the cane he held in his left hand, something Sergius had not expected.

  Sergius Quintilianus was showing signs of weakening. He pulled his horse up short, panting, hunched over in pain. He would have been easy prey just then. But the centurion stopped his horse and dealt him no blow. Sergius was quick to return to the attack. He feinted a slash to his opponent’s groin, thrusting up at the last minute, towards his sternum. The blade missed Publius Sextius’s chest by a hair’s breadth, but tore into the still-gaping wound caused by his fall over the cliff.

  Sextius felt a piercing, searing pain that reawakened the blind fury of the battlefield. His sword and cane struck out alternately with devastating force. Sergius Quintilianus fought back with all the rage and hate that burned in his blood. He attempted another assault, moving back to give himself the room to charge, but Publius Sextius could see the sword heading for his neck and he ducked, then swiftly spun around and drove his blade deep into the other man’s side before he could ride away. Sergius Quintilianus tumbled to the ground and the horse ran off, out of control. Publius Sextius dismounted and drew close. His adversary was gasping for breath and pressing his hand against the wound, blood welling up between his fingers.

  ‘Kill me this time,’ he said. ‘I’m a soldier like you are. Don’t let me rot here in my own blood.’

  Publius Sextius bent down. He was bleeding as well and breathing hard. ‘You don’t have to die,’ he said. ‘I’ll send someone to get you. It’s possible to live without hate, bitterness, spite. We have to rise above the past, or we’re all dead . . .’

  But his adversary had already decided differently. He jerked up, wielding a dagger in his left hand. But Publius had seen the intent in his eyes and he sank his sword into the other man’s heart.

  Sergius Quintilianus fell back, lifeless. He who had so often been defeated by his ene
mies and by destiny had been defeated once again and for ever this time. But his eyes shone for a moment with the look of a soul finally at peace.

  The sun slipped below the mountains and was covered by the night.

  Romae, in Domo Publica, pridie Id. Mart., hora undecima

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 14 March, four p.m.

  THE COMMANDER of the third cohort of guards entered the Domus scowling and was immediately taken to Caesar.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s no trace of him anywhere.’

  Caesar gave a long sigh. ‘It seems strange to me that he hasn’t managed to get word to me, one way or another . . .’

  ‘You said that as he was leaving last night he mentioned an encounter with a lady.’

  ‘That’s correct, tribune.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, then. You said that he’d gone off at other times and that you have always left him free to go where he pleased.’

  ‘That’s true, but I’ve become accustomed to having him always at my side. If I don’t see him I feel . . .’

  ‘I understand. But I’m sure he’ll show up. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. Maybe it’s precisely because he is always at your side that he felt the need for a bit of distraction, and if it’s a pretty lady he’s with, it’s not difficult to imagine why he’s lingering. If anything serious had happened, we’d have heard about it by now.’