Publius Sextius was close behind and vaulted down after him. Decius Saurus had been left alone next to the fire, while his companion had gone off in search of wood. He tried to block the centurion’s way, but Publius Sextius tackled him full on, sending him rolling into the flames.
Mustela jumped on to the first horse he could find and flew through the main gate at a gallop. Publius Sextius ran in the opposite direction until he found his own horse, untied him, leapt on to his back and urged him forward in pursuit of the fugitive.
Mustela had bolted off and was careering about madly, in the light of the moon, among the shadows cast by the trees that streaked the ground with eerie shapes. At every bend in the road, the gravel flew and scattered on to the embankment below.
All at once a bird, frightened by Mustela’s passage, rose to the air directly in front of Sextius’s horse, spooking him and causing him to rear up. The centurion, taken completely by surprise, fell and tumbled down the cliff that edged the road.
Mustela continued to race off at breakneck speed until he realized that he was no longer being followed. He pulled on the reins and his horse jerked to a halt. He turned back, sensing a trap. He moved slowly, looking in every direction, as tense and suspicious as the animal he resembled and whose nickname he bore.
When he spotted Publius Sextius’s horse running wild, a self-satisfied grin curled his lips, deforming his features.
The centurion’s horse was neighing and snorting, still obviously frightened by what had happened. Mustela dismounted and walked to the brink of the embankment. He saw broken branches and a scrap of the cloak his pursuer had been wearing stuck to a twig and waving in the wind.
‘Farewell, Publius Sextius,’ he murmured under his breath, still afraid that somehow the centurion might hear him. Then he remounted his horse and rode off.
Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia
Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.
Artemidorus was stretched out on his bed open-eyed, his lamp burning. He stared at the ceiling beams in a daze as he wondered what to do next. Every now and then he got up to spy on the two guards blocking the hallway. They were still there, unmoving and silent.
At times he would hear noises, footsteps along the corridor or crossing the atrium. He could tell where they were coming from by the noise they made. Brick, marble, stone: each material sounded different. He had grown used to distinguishing them in that house of ghosts, even in the dark: Brutus’s nervous step, Porcia’s pacing, even Servilia’s light footfall when she came to visit her son and would stay for dinner or overnight.
Artemidorus poured himself another glass of water and looked glumly at the untouched tray of cakes that his young servant had brought to his room.
What the boy had reported had filled him with anguish. Thus far he’d said nothing, but what if they tortured him? What would happen then? Could he expect a slave to withstand torture and keep what he knew a secret?
Time must be running out. If Brutus was asking such questions, if the others had come back so soon, it must mean that action was imminent. Artemidorus was desperate to make plans, take precautions, protect himself. . The boy had promised to come back, but that had been hours ago. Had his worst fears come to pass?
The silence and his anxiety had sharpened his senses to breaking point and he was sweating profusely, despite the fact that the temperature in his bedroom was always quite chilly. His tongue felt as dry as a piece of leather and stuck to his palate. He took another sip of water and tried to calm down.
He heard the dog whining in the rear courtyard, the creaking of the outside door, the scamper of feet on the gravel and then on the pavement of the atrium.
The sound was coming closer, turning into the footsteps of his young friend in the corridor leading to his room. At last!
He waited for the boy to knock.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘You know those two out there in the hallway are gone?’ said the boy, entering.
‘That’s not possible!’
‘Look for yourself.’
Artemidorus opened the door a crack and looked out into the corridor, which was lit by a single lamp. No one was there.
‘I can’t explain it. I’m afraid it’s a trap.’
‘They probably think you’re sleeping. They’ve got other things to take care of. The master’s guests are leaving.’
He picked up the tray with the uneaten cakes and made to leave, then turned at the touch of Artemidorus’s hand on his arm.
‘I’m afraid,’ he blurted out. ‘I heard terrible things downstairs. You must let me go.’
‘No, wait,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me and I’ve come to a conclusion. You have to leave this house now, while you are still free to do so, before they start to suspect you. I’m saying this for your sake. I don’t want them to hurt you.’
‘I know, Artemidorus,’ said the boy with a smile. ‘But where can I go? Don’t you know what they do with runaway slaves?’
‘I would testify that I sent you out on an errand. I’m a free man and I have a good reputation. What’s more, Decimus Brutus is the Praetor Peregrinus and deals with all foreign residents. He knows me well. Listen to me. As soon as day breaks, leave the house with an excuse. Say that you’re going to buy me some medicine for my vitiligo; say the itching is driving me crazy. It’s true. Here, take the money. Go to the Tiber Island and look for the hospital. Find Antistius, who is my doctor. Tell him that I’ve sent you and that you need to stay with him for a few days. You’ll be safe, because he lives with Caesar, in the Domus Publica. No one will ever think of looking for you there. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I understand. Do you want me to tell him the names?’
‘Shh! Are you mad? Whisper! No, don’t tell him anything for any reason whatsoever. You stay out of this. I’ll see to the matter myself.’
‘Do you want to give me something to take to him?’
‘Worse yet. If they catch you and search you, what will you say? They’ll cut you into little pieces, one piece at a time, until they’ve got every scrap of information from you. I’ll take care of this. I’m not sure how, but I’ll take care of it. Sooner or later they’ll have something better to do than keep me confined here. Do you understand what you’re to do?’
‘I do,’ answered the boy.
Artemidorus opened a drawer and took out a little piece of parchment. ‘This is a prescription Antistius gave me. It’s a cure for constipation. He’ll recognize it and be sure that I’m the one who has sent you. If you’re stopped on your way, no one will have reason to scold you or suspect you of anything. If Antistius asks about me, tell him that I’m not free to move but that as soon as I can I will contact him personally.’
‘I’ll go first thing in the morning, then.’
‘Go, and good luck. If everything turns out as I’m hoping, we’ll see each other in a few days.’
The boy gazed into his eyes for a moment with a curious, enigmatic expression, halfway between affection and pity. He opened the door and walked away.
Artemidorus watched him for a while from the threshold and then, as no one seemed to be around, took a few steps down the hall to see if he could find out what was happening. But as he was about to turn left towards the peristyle, he found one of his guards in front of him.
‘Out for a walk, maestro?’ he said with a jeer. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Artemidorus felt a wave of fear and then one of powerless anger. ‘To have a crap,’ he replied.
In via Etrusca vetere, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia
The Old Etruscan Trail, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.
Publius Sextius, hanging one-handed from the branch of a thorn bush, was trying to grab on to a rocky outcrop and failing. He was bleeding from an extremely painful flesh wound and he could feel a warm trickle on his left side. All at once he heard his horse snorting.