‘Then use that sword you hold in your hand!’ shouted Sergius Quintilianus, urging his horse forward.
Publius had anticipated the attack and was not taken by surprise. He rushed forward himself and met his opponent’s blows with unfaltering skill and strength. The blades crossed high and low with deafening crashes, sending sparks flying as one screeched along the edge of the other. Sergius lunged once, twice, three times, seeking his adversary’s heart. Unable to reach it, he disengaged, turned around and charged forward again with savage determination. Publius dodged him at the last moment but managed to strike him at the waist with the cane he held in his left hand, something Sergius had not expected.
Sergius Quintilianus was showing signs of weakening. He pulled his horse up short, panting, hunched over in pain. He would have been easy prey just then. But the centurion stopped his horse and dealt him no blow. Sergius was quick to return to the attack. He feinted a slash to his opponent’s groin, thrusting up at the last minute, towards his sternum. The blade missed Publius Sextius’s chest by a hair’s breadth, but tore into the still-gaping wound caused by his fall over the cliff.
Sextius felt a piercing, searing pain that reawakened the blind fury of the battlefield. His sword and cane struck out alternately with devastating force. Sergius Quintilianus fought back with all the rage and hate that burned in his blood. He attempted another assault, moving back to give himself the room to charge, but Publius Sextius could see the sword heading for his neck and he ducked, then swiftly spun around and drove his blade deep into the other man’s side before he could ride away. Sergius Quintilianus tumbled to the ground and the horse ran off, out of control. Publius Sextius dismounted and drew close. His adversary was gasping for breath and pressing his hand against the wound, blood welling up between his fingers.
‘Kill me this time,’ he said. ‘I’m a soldier like you are. Don’t let me rot here in my own blood.’
Publius Sextius bent down. He was bleeding as well and breathing hard. ‘You don’t have to die,’ he said. ‘I’ll send someone to get you. It’s possible to live without hate, bitterness, spite. We have to rise above the past, or we’re all dead. .’
But his adversary had already decided differently. He jerked up, wielding a dagger in his left hand. But Publius had seen the intent in his eyes and he sank his sword into the other man’s heart.
Sergius Quintilianus fell back, lifeless. He who had so often been defeated by his enemies and by destiny had been defeated once again and for ever this time. But his eyes shone for a moment with the look of a soul finally at peace.
The sun slipped below the mountains and was covered by the night.
Romae, in Domo Publica, pridie Id. Mart., hora undecima
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 14 March, four p.m.
The commander of the third cohort of guards entered the Domus scowling and was immediately taken to Caesar.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s no trace of him anywhere.’
Caesar gave a long sigh. ‘It seems strange to me that he hasn’t managed to get word to me, one way or another. .’
‘You said that as he was leaving last night he mentioned an encounter with a lady.’
‘That’s correct, tribune.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, then. You said that he’d gone off at other times and that you have always left him free to go where he pleased.’
‘That’s true, but I’ve become accustomed to having him always at my side. If I don’t see him I feel. .’
‘I understand. But I’m sure he’ll show up. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. Maybe it’s precisely because he is always at your side that he felt the need for a bit of distraction, and if it’s a pretty lady he’s with, it’s not difficult to imagine why he’s lingering. If anything serious had happened, we’d have heard about it by now.’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ replied Caesar. ‘But keep looking. I don’t feel right about this. I need him here.’
‘There’s no need to ask, Caesar. We’ll keep looking until we’ve found him.’
‘Good. And keep me informed. Whether it’s good news or bad, I want to know.’
The tribune took his leave and returned to his task. Caesar remained alone in his study to ponder Silius Salvidienus’s strange behaviour. A thousand thoughts came to his mind. It just wasn’t like him to disappear in that way without sending a message of any sort. His parting words the night before had made Caesar think that he’d be gone for a few hours, perhaps the night. No longer than that.
Might he have been surprised by the husband of this lady he was seeing in a compromising situation? That didn’t seem like him. Besides, everyone knew who he was. Who would have dared hurt a hair of his head?
He turned his thoughts to Antony, who had sent him a message that he would come by presently to collect him and take him to dinner at Marcus Aemilius Lepidus’s on the island. At least going out would distract him from his thoughts. The fact that he hadn’t heard from Publius Sextius in days, and now the disappearance of Silius Salvidienus, troubled him. It was as if someone had decided to deprive him of his most trusted men, the only ones he knew he could count on.
When a servant came to announce that Mark Antony was waiting in the atrium, Caesar rose to his feet.
They walked side by side, proceeding at a good pace and chatting about this and that, and about the next day’s senatorial session.
At a certain point, as they were walking down the Vicus Jugarius in the direction of the Temple of Portunus, Caesar said, ‘We have a challenging session awaiting us tomorrow, so let’s not make this a late evening. Lepidus’s dinners are always lavish affairs. At least there are no mosquitoes at this time of year. That’s something, anyway.’
Antony smiled. ‘You just make a sign and I’ll find an excuse for us to go,’ he replied.
Mansio ad Tiberim, pridie Id. Mart., hora duodecima
The Tiber station, 14 March, five p.m.
Centurion Publius Sextius reached the mansio after travelling east for about three miles. He entered through the main gate and slipped off his horse with some difficulty. He felt rather unsteady on his feet, but it lasted only a moment and then he rallied. As he was nearing Rome, the stations were more heavily guarded and staffed by army officers as well.
Publius approached a guard and showed him his titulus. ‘Call your commander. I’m on an official mission and I have to take the ferry, but I don’t have a penny to my name. And I need something to eat. I’m about to collapse.’
‘Take a look in that cupboard there. The innkeeper is still sleeping off last night’s drink. I don’t think he’ll be cooking anything soon.’
As Publius Sextius was rummaging among chunks of dry bread and some cheese rinds, the guard walked off to report to the officer in charge of the post.
‘There’s a centurion from the Twelfth in there who’s in a big hurry and needs change for the ferry. Sounds like he’s the one we’re waiting for, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s him for sure. Tell him I’ll receive him. Have him come here.’
The guard found Publius Sextius nibbling at a piece of bread with some cheese, swallowing the hard crusts with a little water.
‘The officer in charge will see you at once, centurion. Follow me.’
The man’s expression, stance and tone of voice made a simple invitation sound more like an order, and Publius smelt a trap.
‘The commander wants to see you right now,’ repeated the guard. ‘It’s important.’
Publius was certain that there was someone in the other room ready to arrest him, if not kill him. He turned to the trough where the horses were feeding, spotted one with a bit, bridle and harness, jumped on to his back and spurred him on.
The guard shouted, ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ Then, turning to his comrades, he cried, ‘Close the gate, fast!’