When he was summoned by Brutus a couple of hours later, he felt a bit uneasy. Brutus was a man who respected schedules and it wasn’t lesson time.
Brutus told him that he was expecting visitors from Greece, a philosopher with his disciple, in a few days’ time. The Greek library was in disarray and must be put in absolutely perfect order before the guests arrived. He wanted to make a good impression and so he expected Artemidorus to personally — with a certain emphasis on the word — take care of the matter.
Artemidorus agreed to do so immediately. In truth, it didn’t seem to him that the Greek library needed much tidying up. He’d consulted a text by Aratus of Soli just the day before and everything had looked more or less in place. At the worst, it might take him a couple of hours to sort through the scrolls. He walked to the west side of the house where the library was located, but even before he crossed the threshold he stopped dead in his tracks. It looked as though an entire horde of barbarians had ransacked the place, or that someone had been searching for something hidden among the scrolls that were lying here and there in utter confusion, either piled up in huge mounds or scattered all over without reason or logic.
The sight of that disaster left him perplexed at first, but then a certain doubt wormed its way into his mind and fear replaced surprise. He set to work grudgingly, brooding over any number of the thoughts that were crowding his head, none of them reassuring.
Romae, in aedibus M. T. Ciceronis, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora nona
Rome, the home of Marcus Tullius Cicero, 12 March, two p.m.
A messenger had appeared at the door, announcing that Caius Cassius Longinus was in the vicinity and asked to be received. Tiro told him to wait a moment and reported the request to his master.
‘Did he say what he wanted?’ asked Cicero, interrupting his work.
‘No,’ replied Tiro. ‘I had the impression he was asking to see you alone. Perhaps the matter is confidential.’
Cicero seemed almost irritated by the request. He was beginning to realize what a poor grip on reality the conspirators had. Along with a critical lack of organization and even of a coherent plan. This convinced him even further of the necessity of staying out of the plot, which risked being compromised at any time. But he couldn’t refuse such an immediate request. He sighed. Perhaps it would give him the opportunity to offer some much-needed advice.
He replied, ‘Tell him that he can come in and that I will receive him, but he must enter through the back door.’
Cassius. Always pale, gaunt, gloomy. His cold grey stare seemed to know no emotion. In reality, his character was no more stable than that of Brutus, his decision-making capacity rarely equal to the situations he faced. But he was a courageous man and a very good soldier, as he had proved in battle, during Crassus’s unfortunate campaign in the East.
Cicero always tried to bring to mind everything he knew about a man when he was meeting him for an important reason, even if he’d seen that person shortly beforehand. Cicero knew well what went into a conspiracy. It was he, and not Cato, as Brutus had written, who had put down Catiline’s attempt to overthrow the state twenty years earlier. Then it had been almost an even struggle between those intent on destroying the state and those intent on saving it, and it had ended at Pistoia, on the field of battle. But now the power was entirely in the hands of a single man. The plotters had a great advantage: being close to the intended victim. Some of them were even his most intimate friends.
When he finally arrived, Cassius entered and was accompanied to Cicero’s study by Tiro. He was even paler than usual and the tension that was clawing at him was evident in his leaden complexion and a distinct tremor of his hands.
Cicero walked towards him and offered him a chair.
‘The time has come,’ said Cassius as he sat down, but Cicero interrupted him.
‘It’s better I do not know. No one, besides those taking part in the enterprise, must know. Apart from that, what did you want to tell me?’
‘That we’re ready and all the details have been decided. There’s only one thing we’re divided on and that’s Antony. Some of us — quite a few, actually — believe that he’s loyal to our cause and can be counted on, but I have my doubts about that. I think we have reason to fear him. He never leaves Caesar’s side. And I’m afraid he knows something.’
Cicero pondered his words for a few moments, fingering the stylus he’d been using until his guest walked in.
‘What he knows is not of great significance, since he hasn’t made a move yet, and I don’t imagine he will soon. Antony has his own plans and, remember this, he is anything but what he seems to be. He is extremely dangerous. If you don’t remove him, this endeavour will end in failure. Mark my words. .’ He paused, letting his silence make an impact before concluding, like a judge reading a sentence, ‘. . Antony must die!’
Cassius lowered his eyes and sighed. ‘We know. I myself and others among us are convinced of the wisdom of your words, but Brutus won’t hear reason. Listen to me, Marcus Tullius. You are the only person who can convince him. Allow me to arrange a meeting between you on neutral ground. There’s an old abandoned building at the docks near the Tiber. .’
Cicero stopped him with a gesture of his hand.
‘I cannot. I’m sorry. I must not be involved, because my presence will be important afterwards. As far as Brutus is concerned, I hope, and I believe, that he will come to his senses in the end. You yourself are convinced and that should suffice to induce him to reconsider.’
Cassius understood. It was quite clear that they would not be able to count on Cicero until after the event. And it was for precisely this reason that a further precaution had to be taken, just in case something happened — something irreparable — before the fatal moment.
14
Romae, in insula Tiberis, a.d. Ill Id. Mart., hora decima
Rome, the Tiber Island, 13 March, three p.m.
Marcus Aemilius Lepidus crossed the bridge on his horse and dismounted as soon as he reached the other side. The lictors were waiting for him, fasces in hand, to escort him to headquarters. These were honours due the magister equitum, whose authority was second only to that of the dictator, appointed during a state of emergency. In reality, both were extraordinary offices, with powers that superseded those of the regular consuls, who acted as the executive arm of the republic.
Antistius watched him from the window of his office. Lepidus was slender and agile, despite his years. He wore his hair combed forward to cover part of his forehead. This was more a habit than a hairstyle and had developed over long years of wearing a helmet during the military campaigns in which he had served alongside Caesar and won his esteem. His features were spare, almost hawk-like: a thin face, sunken cheeks, an aquiline nose. In a certain sense, although he was quite different from Caesar, the two men had something in common physically, almost as if their long familiarity with the high command were contagious, somehow influencing their cast of features. He wore armour, with his red cloak belted over his embossed bronze breastplate. He briskly reviewed the honour guard, then entered headquarters. His duties as commander-in-chief awaited him, as well as his political commitments and the other business of the day.
Antistius closed the window and returned to his work. He had been going over the day’s appointments for just a few minutes when a visitor was announced: Silius Salvidienus was asking to see him. He got up and went to greet him at the threshold.
‘Come in,’ he said, and invited him to take a seat.
He served his guest a cup of cool wine and took a diuretic potion for himself.