The Ides of March

5

Mutatio ad Medias, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora decima

The Medias changing station, 8 March, three p.m.

The fields stretching south of the Po flew by under the hoofs of Publius Sextius’s horse as he raced down the road that unwound like a grey ribbon through the green meadows at the foot of the Apennines. The fog had dissipated and the sun shone in a clear, cold sky, its light reflecting off the snow which still covered the mountain peaks.

The swift Hispanic steed, his coat shining with sweat, was showing signs of fatigue, but Publius Sextius continued to push him on nonetheless, snapping the ends of the reins against the horse’s neck and urging him continually forward with words of encouragement.

The rest station, a low brick building with a red-tile roof, was coming into sight now. It stood near a little stream, surrounded by bare hawthorn bushes and flanked by two ancient pine trees. He slowed the horse to a walk and entered the main gate, a stone archway with a sculpted sun at its keystone. The small porticoed courtyard inside had a little fountain at its centre that poured water into a drinking trough carved from a boulder.

Publius Sextius jumped to the ground, took the copper ladle at the end of a chain and drank in long draughts, then let the horse slake his thirst as well, a little at a time so he wouldn’t catch a chill, clammy as he was with sweat. He untied a blanket from behind the saddle and covered the horse’s rump. Then he went towards a side door that led to the office of the station attendant. The man stood at the sound of his knock and let him in.

Publius Sextius opened a wooden tablet with the symbol of the Eagle and the man was quick to ask what he could do for him.

‘I need a fresh horse as soon as possible and. . something else. Does anyone else in the station have. . this?’ he asked, indicating the image carved in the wood.

The man walked to the threshold and pointed at a man intent on unloading sacks of wheat from a cart. ‘Him,’ he answered. ‘The Wrestler.’

Publius Sextius nodded. He walked towards the workman and came straight out with what he had to say. ‘I’m told I can talk to you.’

The man let go of the sack he had hauled on to his shoulders and let it drop with a thud. ‘And I’ve been told to answer you. If I want to.’

The workman certainly had the build of a wrestler, with hair shaved close to his skull, a few days’ growth of beard and thick eyebrows that joined together across his forehead. He wore a dusty work tunic and a pair of sandals worn at the heel. His hands were as big as shovels, rough and callused. There was a leather bracelet on his left wrist and he wore a studded belt at his waist. Publius Sextius sized him up, while the other man had already looked him over from head to toe.

‘All right,’ Publius Sextius began, ‘I have a restricted message that must be taken to Rome. Extremely urgent, extremely important, very high risk.’

The wrestler wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I get it. You need some runners.’

‘I need them now. This instant,’ pressed Publius Sextius. ‘I must be certain that the message gets there. . Or is there an alternative?’

‘No, but I’ll do what I can. You can go on your way, friend, no trouble.’

‘No trouble?’ replied the centurion as his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘There is nothing but trouble, from Cadiz to the Red Sea. I’m afraid there’s a storm brewing that is about to break and it won’t subside until it has swept away everything that has been accomplished so far. We have to stop it, at any cost.’

The wrestler scowled and at the same moment a cloud covered the sun, plunging the courtyard into shadow. The sky seemed to be echoing his words.

‘What are you getting at, man? I can’t understand what-’

Publius Sextius drew in closer. ‘The message must be delivered as quickly as possible to the old guard post at the eighth milestone on the Via Cassia. The message is: “The Eagle is in danger.”’

The other man grabbed his cloak to pull him closer. ‘Almighty gods, what’s going on? What else must I tell them?’

‘Nothing more than what I’ve just said,’ replied Publius Sextius. ‘I’ll take care of the rest myself. I’ll be setting off at once. You get started on this as soon as possible. Good luck.’

As Publius Sextius was walking back towards the main building, he noticed a man sitting over on the ground, not far from them, behind one of the columns of the portico. He was slurping from a bowl of soup, his head low. He was wearing a grey cape and the hood covered his head but not his weaselly face. An ugly mug with a few straggly yellow hairs on his upper lip.

Publius Sextius rejoined the man in charge of the post, asked about his horse and exchanged a few words. A servant brought him something to eat with a glass of wine, while the stable hands prepared the new mount and transferred his baggage.

The man in the grey cape was still bent over his bowl of soup, but he hadn’t missed a word of what had been said. He watched as Publius Sextius downed the wine in a couple of gulps, jumped on to the fresh horse and rode off at a gallop. Then he set his bowl on the ground, got up and, with a steady step, went straight to the stables.

There he put a coin into the groom’s hand and asked, ‘Did you talk to that man who just rode away?’

‘No,’ replied the servant.

‘Did you hear what he said to the attendant?’

‘He asked if he’d be sure to find another horse at the next rest stop.’

‘So he’s in one hell of a hurry, then. .’

‘You said it. He didn’t even finish eating.’

‘Prepare a horse for me as well. Your best. I’ll be leaving tonight, late.’

‘He took the best one.’

‘The best of what’s left, you idiot.’

The servant obeyed at once. He prepared a sturdy-legged bay, harnessed him and took him over to the man in the grey cloak.

‘If you leave late at night,’ he said, ‘be careful. You never know who you might meet up with.’

‘Mind your own business,’ the other shot back. ‘And don’t talk to anyone if you want more of these.’

He shook the coins in his sack before returning to the courtyard, where he slumped down in the same place, leaning against one of the columns.

A convoy of carts piled high with hay, evidently for restocking the stables, entered the courtyard. The drivers were in a jolly mood and the first thing they wanted to know was whether there was any more of the wine they’d had last time. The attendant stood at the door of his office, holding a tablet and stylus, keeping an eye on the dealings and taking note of what was being sold and what the Senate and people of Rome were spending.

‘I hope this stuff isn’t damp,’ he grumbled, leaning over the carts. ‘The last load was all mouldy. I should take off more than half of what I paid you for that last lot.’

‘Blame your lazy servants, not us,’ one of the drivers replied. ‘They left it out all night because they were too tired to haul it under cover in the hayloft. This stuff is perfect, governor, dry as my thirsty throat.’

The attendant took his clue and had some wine brought out for the men, then returned to his office.

A little later another horseman arrived, this one just as out of breath as the first. He glanced around until he found the rat-faced man he was looking for. He gave Mustela the eye and they walked off together. He showed Mustela a receipt and handed him a scroll on which an itinerary was mapped out. Mustela took what he had been waiting for. Now he could continue.

Meanwhile, Publius Sextius was advancing at a gallop along the dirt border that ran alongside the paved road, the Via Emilia, in the direction of Rimini, checking the milestones as he rode to calculate how far he had to go to the next station. He’d passed this way three years earlier, marching with the boys of the Twelfth. It was with them that he had most unwillingly crossed the Rubicon. He well remembered the scenario he’d been forced to invent in order to convince his men that taking that step — against their country and against the law — was necessary.

The sun had begun to set. He had at most another hour and a half of light, sufficient to reach his next stop along the left bank of the Reno. There he would decide whether to set off again or remain for the night. He slowed down when he could feel his mount straining, not wanting to wear him out. He was an infantryman and he’d learned to get to know horses and understand their needs. But he was convinced that Caesar was in great danger and that the threat was imminent. It wasn’t so much Nebula’s hints as his own instinct, the same feeling that, during his guard shifts on the Gallic campaigns, had allowed him to sense the enemy arrow an instant before it was let loose.

Caupona ad Salices, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora duodecima

The Willows Inn, 8 March, five p.m.

Publius Sextius reached the banks of the Reno just short of Bologna and turned right, heading south as he followed the river upstream, according to the directions on Nebula’s map. He didn’t reach the inn, which acted as a changing station, until the sun had already dipped below the mountains. He entered, eager to change his horse. At the door he noticed a little statue of Isis. It wasn’t particularly well crafted, but it made a certain impression nonetheless. Inside, the servants were getting ready to light the oil lamps in the rooms, taking the oil from a jar at the end of the courtyard.

He felt tired. His old wounds were bothering him, as they always did when the weather was bad. The little he’d eaten at the previous station wasn’t enough to keep him going. He tied the horse’s reins to a post and went to find the station attendant, who turned out to be busy playing dice with the innkeeper.

He showed the attendant his credentials and watched the man’s embarrassment at being caught neglecting his duty. But Publius Sextius waved off his anxiety.

‘I’m not an inspector. I’m a simple traveller and I need your advice.’

‘Whatever I can help you with, centurion.’

‘I’m in a hurry, but I don’t know whether to continue on or stop for the night.’

‘I suggest,’ replied the attendant, ‘that you stop and rest. You’re not looking too good and in a short while it will be pitch black out there. Don’t risk it.’

‘How far is the next rest stop?’ asked Publius Sextius.

‘A little over three hours from here. It depends how fast you’re going.’

‘That depends on the horse you give me.’

‘So you want to leave?’

‘That’s right. It won’t be completely dark for at least an hour. Then I’ll see. Before I go I’ll have a hunk of bread and a little of whatever you’ve got. Change my horse. He’s outside tied to a post. Give me the best you have and I’ll remember you.’

‘Of course,’ said the attendant promptly, dropping his dice. ‘This is our innkeeper. He’ll serve you some dinner while I prepare the finest horse in the stables. Why are you in such a hurry, if I may ask?’

‘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.

As 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.

The 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.

Marcus Tullius Cicero 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.’

‘At last! Quickly, go to meet him and bring him here to my study. Have the triclinia prepared. He’s sure to stay for lunch.’

Tiro bowed and went towards the atrium and the front door. But as soon as he glanced out at the road, an expression of disappointment crossed his face. The litter, which was only about fifty paces away, had just turned on to a little road on the left and disappeared from sight. How could he tell his master that the friend he’d been anxiously awaiting had changed his mind? He paused a few minutes in the shade of an old laurel tree that stood next to the gate to reflect on what had happened, then he turned to go and tell Cicero the curious news that as Titus Pomponius’s litter was nearing the gate, it vanished all at once, as if its occupant had had second thoughts.

As he was going in, one of the servants came rushing over, saying, ‘Tiro, there’s someone knocking at the back door! What shall I do?’

Tiro immediately realized what had happened.

‘Open it right away,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there with you.’

In a few steps the servant reached the back door and opened it without asking any questions. Tiro, who was right behind him, recognized Atticus and had him come in.

‘Forgive me, Titus Pomponius, you know how foolish the servants can be. I knew it must be you. Follow me, please. My master is most anxious to see you.’

He opened the door to Cicero’s study, let the man in and left them.

‘I’ve been waiting eagerly for this visit. Has Tiro made your servants comfortable?’

‘There’s no need, my friend,’ replied Atticus. ‘By now they are accompanying my empty litter to my nephew’s house. I came in on foot, from the rear courtyard. I prefer for people not to know where I’m going, even if everyone is aware of our friendship. Well, what’s happening, then? Your last letter clearly led me to believe that there were more things unsaid than said.’

Cicero, who had embraced him when he walked in, now sat next to him. ‘Will you stay for lunch? I’ve had something prepared.’

‘No. I’m sorry. I won’t be able to stay, but I’ve come because I understood you needed to talk to me.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Listen. Some time ago I received a letter from Cassius Longinus.’

Atticus frowned.

‘An unusual letter that apparently didn’t make much sense. Its true meaning was hidden.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘The letter was completely banal, speaking of the most obvious things. A useless letter, that is, unless I was meant to read it in another way.’

‘That may be the case.’

‘You know that Tiro, my secretary, has developed a system of stenography that he uses to transcribe my speeches when I speak in public. He’s quite the expert at cryptography, so I had him interpret the text of the letter as though it were written in some sort of code.’

‘And?’

‘Titus, my friend, you know I’ve never wanted to involve you in situations that could put you in any difficulty. I know what you think and I respect your choices, so I will tell you nothing that would disturb you. What I will say is that there’s something big in the air. I can feel it, even though I don’t know exactly what it might be.’

‘I can easily imagine what you’re about to say. Tiro found another meaning in that letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

Cicero fell silent and looked deep into his friend’s eyes. There he saw a serene spirit, touched with a certain worry and coloured by the affection that his own words confirmed.

‘I came here in secret because I wanted you to be able to speak with me unreservedly. I’m not afraid and you know how important your friendship is for me. Speak freely. No one is listening and no one knows I’m here.’

‘If Tiro’s interpretation is correct, and I think it is, something important is in the offing. An event that will change the destiny of the republic. Someone has decided to keep me in the dark about it, but I’ll be expected to step in later, if I’ve understood correctly.’

‘You are the person who thwarted Catiline’s subversive plot, even though Brutus gives his father-in-law, Cato, credit for doing so in that piece he wrote. And I’m sure Caesar wasn’t happy about that. Anyone who exalts Cato offends him. Cato has already become the martyr of republican freedom, the man who preferred suicide to accepting tyranny. Am I close to the earth-shattering event you’re referring to?’

‘You are very close.’

‘But neither you nor I have the courage to talk about it.’

Cicero bowed his head without answering and Atticus respected his silence at first. But then he began speaking again.

‘If I understand correctly, you’re asking yourself whether it is best for you to accept the unspoken proposal to remain outside this event and then take the reins when everything is over, or whether it might not be better to steer events yourself, as you did when Catiline attempted to overthrow the government.’

‘That’s exactly it,’ replied Cicero. ‘The thought has been tormenting me.’

Atticus drew closer, moving his chair nearer to his friend’s, and looked intently into his face.

‘Let’s make something clear. Even if we don’t want to name this event, you and I are thinking of the very same thing: the only thing that could truly mark the start of a new epoch. What troubles you is that those in charge are neither capable nor experienced enough to ensure that their “solution” won’t provoke an even greater disaster. In the shadow of a great oak, only stunted saplings can grow. Am I right?’

‘I fear that you are. There may nonetheless be men among them who have not displayed outstanding capabilities yet, but who may well surprise us. And that would represent an even more serious problem.’

Atticus sighed. ‘When Alexander died, all of his friends became great kings. And what did they do? They dismembered his empire so each of them could have a little piece, after they’d finished tearing each other to shreds.’

‘I understand what you’re getting at and that’s exactly why I’m worried. Brutus. .’

‘Yes. . Brutus. You’ll have heard the phrase going around about him. Something that Caesar himself came up with.’

Upon hearing that name, Cicero gave a slight but perceptible start.

Atticus continued, ‘Yes, Caesar himself apparently said, “Brutus does not know what he wants, but he wants it badly.” ’

Atticus gave a bitter smile, then shook his head. ‘Stay out of this, my friend. Thank the gods that no one has approached you with a concrete proposal. I. .’

‘What?’ prompted Cicero anxiously.

‘I’ve been told. . well, nothing specific, mind you, but the information I’ve been given seems plausible. I’ll try to dig a little deeper and find out whether someone has an institutional role in mind for you should this. . event take place. I can’t do much more than that. I’m no politician, my friend, all I can do is try to understand. But if I can help you I will. Don’t make any move on your own. If I should learn where the danger is coming from or when the event may occur, I’ll let you know. I may not be able to communicate with you in person. Most probably you’ll receive a message with my seal. Inside you’ll find our usual password, in code. On that day, do not set foot outside your house, for any reason.’

Atticus rose to his feet and Cicero with him. The two men exchanged a firm embrace. They were united by their anxiety in such a critical moment, by their long friendship, by their faith in the same philosophical creed and by their nostalgia for the lost traditions and values of their homeland, which had been trampled by an avidity for power and money, by partisan hatred, by resentment and by revenge.

Atticus had always remained on the sidelines, had long decided to detach himself from that decline. He had a fatalistic bent and was calmly convinced that the chaotic component of history — always predominant — had taken the whiphand. The fragile forces of humankind had no hope of prevailing.

Cicero still believed in the role of politics, but he had neither the courage nor the strength to transform his beliefs into action. He was tormented by his impotence and lived in the memory of the triumphs of his glorious consulate, when he had boldly attacked Catiline in the Senate, unmasked him and forced him to flee.

He personally accompanied his faithful friend to the rear courtyard door. Atticus stopped on the threshold before going out on to the street and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.

‘Just one more thing,’ he said.

‘Tell me.’

‘Are you the one behind the writings that have appeared on all the walls of Rome inciting Brutus to live up to his name?’

‘No,’ replied Cicero.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Atticus, and he left.

Romae, in Campo Martis, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora octava

Rome, Campus Martius, 9 March, one p.m.

Antistius caught up with Silius under the portico of the theatre dedicated to Pompey, which had been finished a decade earlier. Adjacent to the theatre was the Curia, where the Senate was meeting temporarily until works in the Forum were completed. The two men sat at a table in front of an inn. The doctor ordered two cups of hot wine with honey and spices.

‘Has Caesar really received a message from Publius Sextius?’ asked Antistius.

‘Yes, but it was written seven days ago.’

‘Do you know what it says?’

‘It refers to the information Caesar was expecting, regarding his expedition against the Parthians. All good news. We can count on support from Anatolia and Syria, and even Armenia, and we have a complete listing of all our forces deployed from the Danube to the Euphrates. The commander has decided to call a meeting of the general staff in order to examine the feasibility of the invasion plan.’

‘So that’s why he was awaiting the message so impatiently.’

‘I see no other reason and he did not mention anything else himself. He seems quite determined. He means to put his plans into action.’

Antistius shook his head repeatedly. ‘I don’t understand. He’s not well, his work here is not finished, Spain and Syria have not been entirely pacified and yet he wants to take off on an adventure with an uncertain outcome that will keep him away from Rome for years and may cost him his life. An adventure from which there may be no return.’

Silius sipped at his wine.

‘Has he had any more seizures?’ asked Antistius.

‘No, not that I know of. I hope he never has another.’

‘No one can say. Where is he now?’

‘With her.’

Antistius lowered his head without speaking.

Silius put a hand on his shoulder. ‘That Greek teacher. . Artemidorus, wasn’t it? Have you managed to contact him?’

‘I’ll be seeing him soon. I sent him word that he needed a check-up.’

‘Keep me informed if you learn anything new. It’s very important.’

‘You’ll be the first to know. Don’t worry. In any case, don’t leave Rome. I may need you.’

‘I won’t go beyond the city limits unless he orders me to do so in person.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘You too.’

The two men parted. Antistius went back to his island, while Silius remained seated, sipping his spiced wine. A stiff wind began blowing from the north and he gathered his cloak around him to ward off the chill.

Romae, in hortis Caesaris, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora nona

Rome, Caesar’s gardens, 9 March, two p.m.

‘You’re the most powerful man on earth. If you don’t do something it’s because you don’t want to do it, not because anyone or anything is standing in your way!’

The queen had raised her voice and the flush on her cheeks was visible even under the make-up smoothing her skin. Her features were too exotic for her face to be perfect, but they only added to her undeniable allure, which many felt showed the influence of her mother’s native blood. Her figure was absolutely sublime, its perfection untouched by her first pregnancy.

Caesar got up abruptly from the couch she’d been reclining on when she’d received him.

‘I’ve done what I thought was right. You should show some appreciation for the decisions I’ve made regarding both you and the child. I’ve recognized him as my son and I gave you permission to give him my name.’

‘How good of you! He is your son, Caesar, what else could you have done?’

‘I could have done anything. You said so yourself. But I recognized him, not only by allowing him to take my name but by placing a golden statue of you-’

‘Gold-plated,’ the queen corrected him haughtily.

‘In any case, a statue of you in the Temple of Venus Genetrix. Do you realize what that means? That temple is the sanctuary of my family. It means that by having borne Caesar’s child, you have become part of my family and that he, your son, is of divine lineage.’

Cleopatra seemed to calm down. She rose from the couch, drew close and took his hand.

‘Listen to me. Your wife is sterile and Ptolemy Caesar is your only son. I am the last heir of Alexander the Great and you are the new Alexander. In truth, you are greater than he ever was! You have conquered the West and you are about to conquer the East. No one is your equal anywhere in the world, was or will be. You will be considered a god, Caesar, and that means that two divine dynasties will be united in your son! I’ve heard, by the way, that in the Senate there’s been a proposal to make polygamy legal — that is, a man will be permitted to take more than one wife in order to guarantee a bloodline. Is that so?’

‘The initiative didn’t come from me.’

‘Well, it should have!’ burst out Cleopatra, raising both of her hands almost to his face.

Caesar took a step back and stared into her fiery black eyes without saying a word.

‘Don’t you understand?’ the queen continued. ‘Without that law, your son will remain the bastard son of a foreign woman. You must become the king of Rome and of the world, Caesar, and your only successor will be your son, your only true son, blood of your blood. Why did you refuse the crown Antony offered you that day of the Lupercalia?’

‘Because there’s nothing my enemies would have liked better! They are bent on my ruin. They would do anything to make me fall out of favour with the people, to make me look like a tyrant. Can’t you understand that? In Rome, being a king is detestable. Any Roman magistrate in the provinces has a queue of kings and princes waiting months on end just to be received by him. Why would Caesar aspire to a position that is inferior to that of any one of his governors?’

The queen bowed her head and turned her back to him as tears of rage and frustration flowed from her eyes.

Caesar looked at her and couldn’t help but remember that night of intrigue and betrayal in Alexandria, when Cleopatra had been brought to his chambers in secret, wrapped up in a carpet. He had been under siege from every direction and was convinced there was no way out. No way out for him! The conqueror of Gaul and victor over Pompey, caught in a trap of his own making. And yet, when he had seen her standing before him dressed only in a fine, transparent linen gown, her hair pulled back in the Egyptian manner, her shiny eyes rimmed in black, framed by incredibly long lashes, her splendid breasts, everything else had vanished. The besieging armies, Pompey’s beheading, the underhand manoeuvrings of those scheming Greeks. . all faded away. Only she remained, proud and tender, so young in her body and face and so perverse in her gaze. No woman he had ever known — not even Servilia, his lifelong mistress, Brutus’s mother and Cato’s sister — had ever had such a dark, thrilling gleam in her eyes.

Her voice shook him from his musings: ‘What will become of us? Of me and your son?’

‘My son will be the king of Egypt and you will be the regent until the day he comes of age. You will be protected, honoured, respected.’

‘King of Egypt?’ repeated Cleopatra, in an offended tone.

‘Yes, my queen,’ replied Caesar. ‘You should be glad of it. Only a Roman can govern Rome and only as long as he succeeds in justifying his powers.’

Caesar was plagued by the disagreeable thought that the only emotion emanating from Cleopatra was raw ambition. Nothing else. Not that he expected love from a queen, but it made him feel very alone at that moment. He felt torn by doubt and menaced by impending threats, by his own physical ailments, by the awareness that he who climbs high has much further to fall.

‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back to see you, if you like, as soon as I can.’

He walked towards the door and a servant rushed over to open it for him.

‘There are men who would do much more for me,’ said Cleopatra.

Caesar turned.

‘You’ll have noticed, I imagine, how Mark Antony looks at me.’

‘No, I haven’t. But you may be right. That’s why he is Antony and I am Caesar.’

7

Romae, in Foro Caesaris, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora undecima

Rome, the Forum of Caesar, 9 March, four p.m.

The evening service was over and Caesar was leaving, accompanied by the priests who had celebrated the rites in the Temple of Venus Genetrix. He saw Silius coming towards him from the Rostra and stopped under the portico, allowing the priests to go on their way.

‘Where were you?’ asked Caesar.

Silius came closer. ‘I ran into some friends near the Theatre of Pompey and we had a drink together. Do you think Publius Sextius will join us here in Rome?’

‘I think so. Actually, according to my calculations, he should be here within a day or two at most.’

‘So he has completed his mission.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he has. But you can never say. Something unexpected might hold him up. What kills me is the waiting. Rome has a system of roads and communications like nowhere else has ever had, but still news travels slowly. Too slowly for the person waiting.’

He sat on the steps of the temple to watch the men at work in the Curia and every once in a while raised his eyes to the tattered grey clouds that flitted over the city.

‘I can’t wait to get away. Politics in Rome are so tiresome.’

‘The expedition will not be risk-free,’ remarked Silius.

‘At least there I’ll have my enemies opposite me, on the battlefield, and I’ll be surrounded by men I can trust. Here I never know what to think about the person in front of me.’

‘What you say is true. In battle you have to trust the others around you. Everyone’s life depends on it.’

‘See this portico? Not too long ago a delegation from the Senate came to meet me here. To inform me of all the honours they’d heaped upon me in a single session. I told them I’d rather they stop adding on new honours and appointments, and start taking them away.’

Silius smiled.

‘Do you know what they answered? That I was an ingrate. That I hadn’t risen to my feet as they approached, as if I considered myself a god, given the situation, or a king. Seated on my throne under the portico of a temple.’

‘Yes, I heard that as well. But there’s no way you can avoid such talk. Any gesture you make, even the most trifling, is amplified and suddenly assumes great significance. Major significance! It’s the price you have to pay for your rise to power.’

‘Well, the true reason was that even Caesar must partake in his share of human misery. Do you know why I didn’t get up?’ he said with an ironic smile. ‘Because I had diarrhoea. The consequences might have been embarrassing.’

‘No one would believe such a thing, you know that. But it is through such stories that they’re trying to ruin your image with the people. Convince them that you would be their king.’

Caesar lowered his head in silence and sighed. With his arms folded across his knees he looked like a tired labourer. Then he raised his eyes and gazed at Silius with an enigmatic expression.

‘Do you believe that?

‘What, that you want to be king?’

‘Yes. What else?’

Silius gave him a puzzled look. ‘Only you can answer that, but several things you’ve done or said would make one believe so. Not this last thing you’ve told me, of course.’

‘Tell me what, then.’

‘The day of the Lupercalia. .’

Caesar sighed again, shaking his head. ‘We’ve talked about that. I told you exactly how things really went. But of course no one believes that it wasn’t a scene I’d orchestrated myself. Perhaps not even you, Silius.’

‘To be honest, it’s difficult to believe otherwise. What’s more, the presence of Cleopatra here in Rome with the child has really struck people the wrong way. Cicero for one can’t stand her. It’s only natural for people to think that she’d be pushing for the establishment of a hereditary monarchy, with little Ptolemy Caesar as your natural heir.’

The forum was beginning to empty out little by little. People were leaving the square and making their way back home to prepare for dinner, especially those who had guests. The priests closed the sanctuary doors and from the Capitol the smoke of a sacrifice rose and drifted into the grey clouds. Even the columns of Venus’s temple had taken on the colour of the sky.

‘You can’t believe such a thing. Only an idiot would do something so foolish. It’s sheer madness to think that the Romans would allow themselves to be governed by any king, much less a foreign one.’

‘Exactly, commander. It’s not about Cleopatra. It’s Antony’s behaviour that I can’t explain. I’ve reflected on this at length. The question is crucial, because the answer implies a fundamental failing on the part of one of your most important supporters, a man whose loyalty you need to be able to count on.’

The look in Caesar’s eye was like none Silius had ever seen there before, not even when Antistius had told him openly what he thought about his illness. A feeling of intense sadness flooded through Silius as he thought he recognized dismay and perhaps even fear in the gaze of his invincible commander.

‘You know,’ said Caesar, ‘every so often I feel like a beer. It’s been a long time since I had a beer.’

Silius was not fooled. When the commander changed the subject so abruptly, it meant that he was bent on avoiding some particularly distressing thought.

‘Beer, commander? There’s a tavern at Ostia that serves excellent beer. Just the way you like it, dark and at the right temperature, straight out of the cellar. But seeing as you probably don’t want to go so far, I can have an amphora brought by for lunchtime tomorrow.’

But Silius was waiting for an answer, not about the beer, and Caesar knew that.

‘What do you know about Antony that I don’t know?’ he said eventually, scowling.

‘Nothing. . nothing that you don’t know. Nonetheless I think that. . Publius Sextius might. .’

‘Might what?’

‘Might be able to learn what he’s up to.’

‘Have you spoken to him about this?’

‘Not exactly, but I know that he has his suspicions and I’d say that he won’t give up until he finds a convincing answer.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that Publius Sextius is investigating Antony on his own initiative?’

‘Publius Sextius would investigate anything that could possibly involve your personal safety, if I know him well. But you, commander, what do you think? What do you think of Mark Antony? Of the man who would have made you king? That gesture of his at the Lupercalia, how do you explain it? Recklessness? Mere distraction?’

Caesar was quiet for quite some time, considering all the angles of the thorny question as perhaps he never had before. In the end, he said, ‘Antony may not have understood what was happening and acted instinctively. Perhaps he’s been feeling overlooked lately and thought he would gain favour in my eyes with a gesture of that sort. Antony is a good soldier but he’s never understood much about politics. And it’s all about politics. . knowing what your adversaries are thinking, foreseeing their moves and having your counter-moves ready.’

‘In any event, you came through well, Caesar, thanks to your renowned quick thinking. The same that’s made you victorious time and time again on the battlefield.’

‘You say so? The fact remains that I still do not know whom I can trust.’

‘Me, commander,’ replied Silius, looking straight into those grey eyes — those hawk’s eyes — that had dominated so many in battle but seemed bewildered now, in the convoluted labyrinths of Rome. ‘You can trust Publius Sextius, “the Cane”, and you can trust your soldiers, who would follow you all the way to Hades.’

‘I know,’ replied Caesar, ‘and I’m comforted by that. And yet I do not know what awaits me.’

He stood and began to walk down the podium steps. A stiff breeze had picked up from the west, whipping his clothes around his body.

‘Come,’ he told Silius. ‘Let’s go home.’

Romae, in aedibus M. J. Bruti, a.d. VII Id. Mart., hora duodecima

Rome, the home of Marcus Junius Brutus, 9 March, five p.m.

The soft burbling of the hydraulic clock was the only sound to be heard in the big silent house. It was an object of extraordinary refinement that had been crafted by a clockmaker from Alexandria. The hours of the day were represented in a mosaic of minute tesserae on a field of blue depicting young maidens dressed in white with golden highlights in their hair for the daytime hours, in black with silver highlights for the night.

Voices could suddenly be heard from outside, then the clanking of a gate as it slammed shut, followed immediately by quick steps. A door opened and a hissing wind invaded the house, reaching its innermost rooms. A dry leaf was carried along to the end of the corridor, where it stopped.

The woman who walked out of her bedroom upstairs was strikingly beautiful. Barefoot, she wore a light gown. She closed the door behind her without making a sound and moved down the hall to the back stairs, where the noise was coming from. She leaned over the balustrade to see what was happening below. A servant had opened the back door and was letting in a group of six or seven men, who entered one or two at a time. Each man took a quick look at the road behind him before crossing the threshold.

The servant accompanied them down the corridor towards the study of the master of the house, who was expecting them. Someone was at the door, waiting to receive them. After they had gone in the servant closed the door behind them and walked away.

The woman pulled back from the balustrade and returned to her room. She locked herself in, then went to the middle of the floor and knelt down. Using a stylus, she prised free one of the bricks. Underneath was a little wooden wedge with a cord tied at its centre. She pulled the cord and a glimmer of light shone through from the room below. She bent closer and put her eye to the crack so she could see what was going on in the study of Marcus Junius Brutus.

The first to speak was Pontius Aquila. He was tense, refusing to take a seat despite his host’s invitation.

‘Tell me, Brutus,’ he said. ‘What have you decided?’

The master of the house sat down with an apparent show of calm. ‘We’ll wait for Cicero’s answer,’ he said.

‘To hell with Cicero!’ burst out Tillius Cimber. ‘All he does is talk. What do we need him for? We don’t need any more volunteers. How many men does it take to kill just one?’

Publius Casca broke in, ‘Hadn’t we already decided to keep him out of this? Everyone knows he hasn’t got the guts.’

Brutus tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Calm down. Haste is a notoriously poor counsellor. I want to be sure that Cicero is on our side before we make a move. I’m not asking him to take up a dagger. The fact is that Cicero enjoys great prestige in the Senate. If our plan is to be successful we have to make arrangements for what will happen afterwards. Cicero will be fundamental in managing what comes next.’

‘The earth is starting to burn beneath our feet,’ shot back Casca. ‘We have to act now.’

‘Casca’s right,’ said Pontius Aquila. ‘I’ve heard that Caesar is setting his hounds on our tracks. All that it takes is one man letting his tongue slip, or one wayward look, to betray our plan. If he catches on and loses his temper, it’s all over for us. Time is against us.’

‘What exactly have you heard?’ demanded Brutus.

‘Caesar has sent his most faithful men on investigative missions to the outlying territories, so that we’ll feel safe here in the capital. It’s the old noose trick: pull it a little tighter each day until he strangles us. I’m telling you, we have to act now.’

Their voices were muffled and difficult to hear on the floor above, just a confused muttering with a few shrill notes here and there. The woman tried to adjust her position to find the best point from which to both hear and see.

Marcus Brutus’s voice again, scornful: ‘We’re his most faithful men, aren’t we?’

Casca had no desire for banter. ‘Listen, if you don’t feel up to this, say so now,’ he said.

The woman in the room upstairs started, as if she’d been hit by an unseen object.

‘I’ve always spoken the truth,’ replied Brutus. ‘So how dare you insinuate-’

‘Enough!’ shouted Casca. ‘This whole situation has become intolerable. There are already too many of us. The more there are, the greater the chance that someone will lose control, get panicky.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘What do you mean by “outlying territories”?’

‘What I’ve heard,’ answered the other, ‘is that Publius Sextius, the centurion who saved Caesar’s life in Gaul, has been in Modena since the end of last month and he’s going around asking strange questions. Modena, just by chance, happens to be where one of the best informers on the market is based. A man who has no qualms about selling information to just about anybody, without a thought to principle or political alliances. As long as he’s well paid.

‘Anyway,’ continued Aquila, ‘he’s what I mean by faithful. Publius Sextius is incorruptible. He’s not a man, he’s a rock. If Caesar has decided to use him, it means he doesn’t trust any of us. And Publius Sextius may not be the only one.’

A leaden silence fell over the room. Pontius Aquila’s words had reminded each one of them that there were men for whom loyalty to one’s principles and one’s friends was a natural, unfailing quality. Men who were incapable of compromise, men who remained true to their convictions.

None of them meeting here in Brutus’s home, on the other hand, had refused the favours, the help, the forgiveness of the man they were preparing to murder. And this couldn’t help but give rise to an intense, grudging sense of unease — more in some than in others — and deep shame that was becoming more and more unbearable with every day that passed. Certainly, each of them could find noble reasons for the act they were preparing to carry out: stamping out tyranny, restoring faith — that word again! — in the republic. But in reality one true reason stood above all others, like a prickly weed above the prettily mowed lawn: their resentment at owing it all to him — their lives, their salvation, their possessions — after they’d lost everything, after they’d realized that they had been playing at the wrong table.

‘I think it would be better to move soon. Even tomorrow. I’m ready,’ said Aquila.

‘So am I. The sooner the better,’ added Casca, increasingly restless.

Brutus looked into their faces, one by one. ‘I need to know if you are speaking on your own behalf or in the name of the others as well.’

‘Let’s say that most of us are in agreement,’ replied Aquila.

‘But I’m not,’ retorted Brutus. ‘Every last one of us has to agree. When a decision is made, it’s necessary to stick to that decision, no matter what it costs. If there are risks, we will run those risks together.’

‘What’s more,’ added Cimber, ‘we can’t predict how Antony and Lepidus will react. They might become dangerous.’

Just then Brutus noticed that a scattering of fine sawdust had settled to the floor near his feet and he instinctively raised his eyes to the ceiling, just in time to see a fleeting shadow.

The sound of footsteps was heard along the corridor, coming from the back door that led out on to the street. Cassius Longinus soon joined them, his emaciated, pale face appearing at the entrance to Brutus’s study. Right behind him was Quintus Ligarius, along with Decimus Brutus and Caius Trebonius, two of Caesar’s greatest generals.

‘Cassius!’ exclaimed Cimber. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

Cassius appeared no less agitated than Casca. ‘As you know,’ he began, a little breathlessly, ‘Lepidus landed yesterday morning on the Tiber Island and has every intention of staying put. The commander’s standard has been hoisted on the praetorium. That can mean only one thing: Caesar suspects something. We have to act sooner than we planned.’

‘We were just saying the same thing,’ said Casca, nodding approvingly at Pontius Aquila.

‘No,’ shot back Brutus resolutely. ‘No. We will keep to the date we decided on. There will be no discussion. We need time to explore the intentions of Lepidus and Antony.’

‘Lepidus and Antony are not stupid and they’ll adapt,’ replied Cassius. ‘Smite the shepherd and the sheep will scatter.’

‘Sheep?’ retorted Trebonius. ‘I wouldn’t call Antony a sheep. Nor Lepidus. They are fighters and they’ve given proof of their courage and valour on more than one occasion.’

‘But,’ Cassius chimed in, ‘exploring their intentions would mean widening the circle of those who know even further, increasing the risk of a leak, which would be fatal. I say leave them where they are. Too dangerous.’

Brutus started to reply, but Cassius shot him a look and he stopped.

‘Perhaps Brutus is right,’ said Cassius after a while. ‘A few days more or less won’t make any difference. The situation has generated a lot of anxiety and so we’re naturally tending to exaggerate, to fret about perils that in all likelihood don’t exist. At least not yet. Let’s maintain the date we decided on. Changing it would be complicated. I still have to see a few people and I’m hopeful these meetings will clear the air, eliminate any doubts we may still have.

‘What matters is that you are still determined — that we all are. Sure of doing the right thing. Certain that what we’re preparing to do is just and proper. Once this is over with, we’ll be freed of a weight that has been burdening our conscience as free men. No doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty. We have the right to do what we are doing. The law is on our side, the tradition of our fathers who made us the great, invincible people we are. Caesar triumphed in the blood of his fellow citizens, massacred at Munda. He committed a sacrilege that he must pay for with his life.’

Caius Trebonius, who had listened silently to Cassius’s impassioned speech, came forward. He was a veteran of the Gallic War, had commanded the siege of Marseilles and had conducted the repression three years before in Spain against the Pompeians.

‘Cut the crap, Cassius,’ he said. ‘Spare us your patriotic exhortations. We — all of us — have been his faithful companions or the faithful executors of his orders. We all accepted his nominations to become praetors, quaestors, tribunes of the plebs. Some of you were pardoned by him but none of you took your own lives as Cato did. Quintus Ligarius was pardoned twice: a true record. Where are you, Ligarius? Show your face.’

The man advanced, scowling. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘I’ve remained loyal to my convictions. I never asked Caesar to pardon me. It was his decision to spare my life.’

‘He would have spared Cato’s as well had he been given the chance, but Cato preferred suicide to putting himself in that situation. Tell me, friends, is there anyone here who feels animated by the noble sentiments that Cassius has just expressed? Are those really good reasons? I think not. And yet we all want him dead. Some of you because you were faithful to Pompey and Pompey no longer exists. Not that Caesar was the one who killed him. The dirty work was done by a little Egyptian king, a puppet who wouldn’t have lasted three days without our support. Others claim they want to defend republican values. But each of us has a deeper, truer reason. Each of us thinks that Caesar doesn’t deserve what he has, that he owes it all to us, that without us he would have achieved nothing. He has all the glory, the love of the most fascinating woman on earth, power over the entire world, while we have to be happy with the crumbs that fall from his table. We’re like dogs he tosses bones to after he’s finished gnawing at them. And that’s why he must die!’

No one said a word, not Casca, nominated praetor a year before, not Cassius Longinus, whom Caesar had welcomed among the officers of his army after he had opposed him at the Battle of Pharsalus, not Ligarius, twice-pardoned, not Decimus Brutus, who would soon be governor of Cisalpine Gaul and who held his tongue, frowning. Nor any of the others.

Marcus Junius Brutus, who perhaps could have spoken, said nothing because he knew he was at the centre of that eye staring down on him from the middle of the ceiling.

He knew who was watching him.

The enquiring eye, which sparkled with a light that was almost manic, belonged to Porcia, his wife. The daughter of Cato, the republican hero who killed himself at Utica rather than accept the clemency of the tyrant. Porcia, whom he’d kept in the dark about everything. Porcia had first guessed and was now certain of what he was plotting.

He remembered what had happened just a few days before. It was the middle of the night and he was sitting in his study wide awake, tormented by his own thoughts, nightmares, doubts and fears and remorse. She’d appeared in the open doorway, a vision advancing from the other side of the atrium. She was barefoot and seemed to be walking on air. She moved like a ghost, white in the dim glow of a single lamp.

She’d never looked so beautiful. She wore a light nightgown, open at the sides. Her thighs, white and perfect as ivory, and her girlish, shapely knees, were bared with every step as she came closer. She was brandishing a stylus and she had that light in her eyes, fixed and trembling at the same time, the feverish light of a state not unlike madness.

‘Why are you hiding your plans from me?’

‘I’m not hiding anything from you, my love.’

‘Don’t lie. I know you’re hiding something important.’

‘Please, love, don’t torment me.’

‘I know why you won’t tell me. It’s because I’m a woman. You’re afraid that, if I were tortured, I’d reveal the names of your comrades. Isn’t that so?’

Brutus shook his head in silence, trying to hide his glistening eyes.

‘But you’re wrong. I’m strong, you know. I’m Cato’s daughter and I have his temperament. Pain means nothing to me. No one could force me to talk if I didn’t want to.’

The stylus glittered in her hand like a cursed jewel. Brutus couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

‘Watch!’ she exclaimed, turning the stylus against herself.

Brutus had shouted, ‘No!’ and run towards her, but Porcia had already stuck the stylus deep in her left thigh, digging the tip into the wound so it tore cruelly into her flesh. Blood surged out and he fell to his knees before her, ripped the iron out of her hand and covered the wound with his mouth, licked it with his tongue, weeping.

He shook when Trebonius’s voice exclaimed, ‘The day of the final reckoning will be the day we decided upon: the Ides of March!’