The Ides of March

  ‘Take this,’ he said, pressing the note into his hand. ‘Run as fast as you can and give it to Caesar before he gets to the Curia. I’ll try as well to get to the entrance of the theatre before he does. One of us has to succeed. If you can’t find Caesar, go to Antistius at the Domus and give the scroll to him. Give it to no one but him! Tell him that I’m going directly to the Senate to bring Caesar the same message.’

  The boy cut down a side road and started running as swiftly as he could, eager to reach Caesar before he arrived at his destination. Artemidorus set off for the Curia by another route. The boy caught up with Caesar’s entourage as they were about to enter the Campus Martius. He tried to get close, but there was an enormous crowd thronging around Caesar. Everyone wanted to talk to him; everyone had a petition they wanted him to hear. Although he tried as best he could to push his way through, the boy was shoved rudely out of the way and nearly trampled on. He tried again, but found himself blocked by an impenetrable wall of human bodies. Out of breath and disheartened, he ran back to the Domus. When he arrived he asked one of the servants where Antistius was, only to be told that he had left. The boy curled into a corner of the kitchen. ‘I’ll wait here until he comes back,’ he said. ‘I have to give him a personal message.’

  Artemidorus was still pushing his way through the crowds that were milling around the streets and squares, not even sure why he’d taken on such a daunting task. Perhaps he’d realized that destiny had given him the chance to change the course of events and he couldn’t miss the opportunity.

  Romae, ad Pontem Sublicium, Id. Mart, hora tertia

  Rome, the Sublicius Bridge, 15 March, eight a.m.

  THE BOAT drew up at the dock on the far side of the bridge and the boatman descended below deck.

  ‘We’re here, commander!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve had a good rest.’

  Publius Sextius opened his eyes and covered them at once with his hand to protect them from the glaring light of the sun. He slowly made his way to the deck as the boatman finished mooring the vessel and lowered the gangplank. The centurion untied the horse and led him carefully to dry land.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told the man. ‘I’ll send someone to pay you. I need the horse.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied the boatman. ‘I can recognize a man of his word at first glance. Ill wait.’

  Publius Sextius mounted his horse and headed towards Caesar’s gardens.

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

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

  CAESAR stepped down from the litter shortly before it arrived at the Senate, preferring to arrive on foot as he always had. But there was yet another crowd of people awaiting him at the entrance to the Curia. Antony, who had been standing on the stairway, spotted Caesar and went towards him to guide him in. Decimus Brutus never left his side, determined to protect him from the pressing throng. One man reached out to grab him by his tunic, a second tried to hand him an appeal, another a petition. Others merely wanted to touch him because he was everything they would have liked to be.

  Caesar stopped suddenly in his tracks because he had spied, among the crowd, a face he knew well.

  The soothsayer.

  He called out, ‘Spurinna!’

  The man turned and the throng parted, somehow aware that nothing could come between their locked eyes.

  ‘Spurinna,’ said Caesar then with an ironic smile. ‘Well? The Ides of March have come and nothing has happened.’

  The seer stared at him intensely as if to say, ‘Don’t you understand?’

  He spoke aloud. ‘Yes, Caesar, but they are not yet gone.’ Then he turned and disappeared among the crowd.

  Artemidorus ran up at that moment, panting, feeling as if his heart would burst. He calculated the spot that Caesar would reach within a few steps and was there waiting for him, having pushed and shoved his way to the front of the mob. As soon as Caesar was close enough, he thrust the scroll into his hand, saying, ‘Read this now!’ He ran off as quickly as he could, frightened by his own boldness.

  At this point Caesar was practically being carried along by the ebb and flow of the populace towards the entrance to the Curia. He tried several times to open the scroll, but the press of the petitioners prevented him from doing so. Some of the senators came forth and created a kind of corridor through which Caesar could calmly make his entrance. Antony had kept up with Caesar all this time and Decimus Brutus looked over and made eye contact with him. Caius Trebonius had just stepped up and he took Antony aside, apparently to tell him something important.

  Caesar passed the two men, so closely they could have touched him, and entered.

  Romae, in aedibus Bruti, Id. Mart., hora quarta

  Rome, the home of Brutus, 15 March, nine a.m.

  PORCIA WAS consumed by anxiety. She tortured herself by continuing to calculate the timing of the act that she knew must be commencing, counting the steps of her husband and the others as they took their places and readied themselves for what was to be. She couldn’t bear the mounting agony of the wait. When one of the maids returned from the Forum, where she’d gone to do the shopping, Porcia demanded news of Brutus. Not receiving an answer that satisfied her in any way, she summoned a servant and ordered him to run to the Curia to see what was happening. When he didn’t return, she sent another.

  Time seemed to stand still; no, to stretch out endlessly. She was sure that the lack of news meant that the plan had come to nothing, the enterprise had failed, Brutus and his friends had been captured and would be subjected to public scorn and derision.

  In fact, the servants had not returned because they hadn’t even yet arrived.

  The tension had become intolerable. She paced back and forth, up and down the atrium, twisting her hands. She felt terribly light-headed and her heart was racing. She thought she would go to her room, to stretch out on her bed for a moment, but her heartbeat had become so irregular that she couldn’t catch her breath. Her lovely lips turned pale, her face became ashen, her legs folded beneath her and she collapsed to the floor.

  Her maidservants ran over, screaming in fright. They did all they could to revive her, but nothing worked. Their shrieks alerted the neighbours, who found Porcia in that state, pale and still, showing no signs of life. The word spread that she had died and someone took it upon themselves to run to the Curia and tell Brutus what had happened.

  Porcia regained consciousness soon after and was helped to her feet. But none of those present was aware that the news of her death was already travelling towards the Curia, where Brutus was ready, dagger in hand, to strike.

  Romae, in hortis Caesaris, Id. Mart., hora quarta

  Rome, Caesar’s gardens, 15 March, nine a.m.

  PUBLIUS SEXTIUS stopped his horse in front of the entrance to the villa and showed his tituhis to the doorkeeper.

  ‘Announce me to the Queen. I am centurion Publius Sextius. She’s expecting me. Then send someone to pay the boatman waiting at the docks at the Sublicius Bridge.’

  The doorkeeper had recognized him and motioned for him to follow. He led him inside the villa towards Cleopatra’s apartment, where the Queen received him at once.

  ‘You’re wounded!’ she said as he swayed on his feet before her, deathly pale. ‘I’ll have my doctors take care of you.’

  ‘No,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘Not now. There’s no time. My lady, you must listen to me. I have completed the task you assigned me and I have good reason to believe that there is a conspiracy under way to murder Caesar. The fact that someone has been trying at every turn to prevent me from reaching the city – even by attempting to take my life – makes me think that the act is imminent. Please, allow me to go to him and warn him in person.’

  Cleopatra seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘No, my lady. I’m not certain, but I believe it’s very probable. Where is he now? He needs me.’

  ‘He’s meeting with the Senate,’ replied Cleopatra.

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; ‘Take every precaution you can for your own safety. I must go. I’ll explain what I’ve learned later.’

  ‘Wait,’ said the Queen, but Publius Sextius had already gone.

  She called her child’s tutor at once.

  ‘Prepare the prince,’ she ordered. ‘And have my ship readied for departure. We must be ready to leave at any time.’

  The tutor, a dark-skinned eunuch, set off immediately to do as he had been told.

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

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

  MARCUS JUNIUS BRUTUS was trying to quell the pounding of his heart as he sought a glance of reassurance from Cassius. The other conspirators were in no better state. Every movement, any unexpected word, made them jump.

  Publius Servilius Casca started when one of the senators took him by the arm, and felt even worse when the man grasped his hand and murmured, ‘You know? Brutus has told me about your little secret . . .’

  Casca felt that all was lost. He was on the verge of losing control and he began to stutter, ‘No, that’s not possible. He can’t—’

  But the man gave a little chuckle and went on, ‘I know you’re planning to stand for aedile. Not an easy affair, is it, to raise the kind of money you’ll need for your electoral campaign. But Brutus told me how you’re going to do it.’

  Casca breathed a sigh of relief and regained sufficient control to send the senator on his way with some sharp words: ‘I won’t accept such insinuations. My behaviour has always been beyond reproach.’

  Brutus had approached Cassius and was quietly conversing with him when Popilius Laenas, one of the oldest of the venerable assembly, came up to them with a cordial expression. He took them aside and said in a rather loud whisper, ‘I wish you luck in completing your plan. But act quickly. Something of this sort won’t stay a secret long.’

  Having said this, he walked away quickly, leaving Brutus and Cassius stunned.

  Did Popilius know? And, if he did, how many others? In the meantime, Caesar was already crossing the threshold and walking into the room. Popilius walked up to him as Brutus watched in horror.

  ‘Look!’ he said to Cassius. ‘He’s approaching Caesar . . . It’s over, my friend. We must ready ourselves to die an honourable death. May our blood be on the head of the tyrant! Pass word on to the others.’

  With that, he grasped the hilt of the dagger under his cloak. Cassius then spoke quietly to Pontius Aquila, who was standing nearby, and he turned to Rubrius Ruga and to Caius Casca.

  Popilius Laenas began to chat with Caesar in a free and easy way, and the two men conversed for a while without paying attention to anyone else. No one could hear what they were saying.

  The conspirators, who had all been alerted by word of mouth, seized their daggers and moved towards the companion with whom they’d exchanged the death oath.

  But nothing happened.

  Popilius had the air of requesting, rather than revealing, something. He kissed Caesar’s hand and was answered with what seemed to be reassuring words.

  Brutus cast a soothing look around the room and gave a nod as if to say that their panic had been unnecessary. They all calmed down.

  Just then an out-of-breath messenger came asking for Brutus. He caught a glimpse of him, ran over and bent close, still panting, trying to control his emotions.

  ‘Your wife, master, lady Porcia . . .’

  ‘Speak up, what’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s fallen ill, or perhaps . . .’

  ‘What?’ insisted Brutus, grabbing him by the tunic.

  ‘Perhaps she’s dead,’ replied the servant, and took to his heels.

  Brutus dropped his head in confusion and anguish. He knew he should go to Porcia, but he couldn’t desert his friends at this moment. No matter how events unfolded, this would be a tragic day for him. Cassius laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Caesar went then to his golden chair.

  A brief exchange of glances between Cassius and Tillius Cimber was their cue. The plan could go ahead.

  Cimber approached Caesar.

  ‘What is it, Cimber?’ he asked with a touch of impatience. ‘It’s not about recalling your brother from exile again, is it? You know what I think about that and I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘But Caesar,’ began Cimber, ‘I beg of you . . .’ In saying this, he grasped Caesar’s toga, which slipped off his shoulders.

  This was the second and final signal. Casca stood behind Caesar and dealt the first blow.

  Caesar bellowed out in pain and surprise.

  The roar of the wounded lion thundered in the hall and outside of it.

  He shouted, ‘This is violence!’ and before the dagger could strike him again he twisted around, stylus in fist, ready to plunge it into his assailant’s arm. Casca’s hand trembled and the second cut was only skin deep. But there was no escaping the daggers that surrounded Caesar now, everywhere he turned.

  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.

  PUBLIUS 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 stre
tcher, 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.

  RUFUS 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.

  LEPIDUS, 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?’