‘Did something upset you, Caesar?’ asked Antony.
‘No, but I don’t feel well. I’m tired and I haven’t been sleeping well. My mind is troubled and my responsibilities weigh on me as never before. I worry I won’t be able to fulfil the task I’ve set for myself and fear my dignity may be at stake.’
‘I’ve felt the same way at times. Since I’ve been consul I’ve found myself in the situation you’re describing more than once. I’ve made mistakes that later I couldn’t believe. . Maybe we’re not meant for politics. Our place is on the battlefield. Once you’re back at the head of your legions you’ll find strength and faith in yourself. And so will I.’
‘That may be,’ replied Caesar. ‘But the fact is this is how I’m feeling now and I don’t think things will get much better as long as I’m here in Rome. And this prolonged absence of Silius doesn’t help matters.’
‘I didn’t know that Silius was absent. What happened?’
‘Last night, after all of you had gone, he asked if he could leave the house and he led me to believe he was seeing a lady friend. A perfectly natural request. The problem is that he hasn’t come back and I don’t know what to think.’
‘Oh, he’ll be back soon. I wouldn’t worry about him, Caesar. He’s a man who can take care of himself. Anyway, we’re here for you. We’re at your side and you know you can always count on us. I’ll see you in the Senate tomorrow.’
Caesar looked at him and for a moment the scene at the Lupercalia festival flashed so vividly before his eyes that it seemed real, and he thought he saw a crown in Antony’s hands, stretching towards his head. They’d already spoken about the matter, on the same day it happened. Caesar had been furious, but Antony merely apologized, claiming he hadn’t realized what was going on.
Caesar said nothing and went in.
Antistius was waiting for him with his potion. Calpurnia had had a bath prepared for him, thinking it would relax him before he went to sleep.
Thunder rumbled over the city.
Calpurnia sat next to the tub, the lamp light casting a golden glow on her cheeks. She was tender at such moments, a gentle companion. Caesar touched her hand.
‘Have you noticed that Antistius has a boy here with him tonight?’ she asked.
‘A boy? That’s curious. Do you know who he is?’
‘No. He said that he’d taken him in because his master was beating him.’
‘If Antistius has allowed him to stay he must have good reason to do so. Surely he’ll contact the man and tell him not to treat the boy so harshly.’
Calpurnia shrugged. ‘Maybe. To me it seems strange. I think he should be interrogated.’
Caesar abruptly changed the topic. ‘Do you know Spurinna the augur?’
His wife seemed surprised. ‘I know who he is, but I’ve never spoken to him.’
Calpurnia bit her tongue. The man had a reputation for strangeness and was part of the circle of another woman, her rival. She would have preferred to end the discussion there, but she could tell that Caesar wanted to talk.
‘They say he’s a seer. I know people who have consulted him. Why do you ask?’
Caesar hesitated, holding back. ‘The other day,’ he said finally, ‘I saw him.’
The scene reappeared sharp and clear before his eyes. It had to be his disease that was having this terrible effect on him, these sudden, violent apparitions from the past. The event filled his head and his own voice seemed to be coming from far away, as if another person was describing what he was seeing at that instant.
‘He is really frightening-looking. Deep, dark circles around his eyes, that emaciated face with such hollow cheeks-’
Then he heard nothing. All he could see was Spurinna’s lips, moving without making any sound.
He shook his head, as if to cast off the vision, but all at once he heard Calpurnia’s voice, speaking in an anguished tone: ‘The Ides of March are today.’
Caesar replied without emotion, ‘Yes, they are.’
Neither of them said any more. The only sound to be heard was the water burbling from the marble mouth of a satyr into the bathtub.
Calpurnia broke the unbearable silence. ‘Seers and oracles are always very ambiguous. It’s their nature. That way, no matter what happens they can always say they foresaw it.’
‘You’re right,’ said Caesar. ‘But why the Ides of March?’
‘Why not?’ replied Calpurnia. ‘He might have said any date at all.’ But her voice betrayed her concern.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Caesar. ‘He was thinking of something specific. I could read it in his eyes. I can see things in men’s eyes. I’ve had a lot of practice: the eyes of my soldiers, of my officers. Tension, resentment, fear, resignation. A commander has to know what’s going on in his men’s minds.’
Calpurnia tried to sustain her hypothesis. ‘Maybe he saw illness, or the loss of a loved one, or. .’
‘Or the loss of everything,’ concluded Caesar darkly.
Calpurnia’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You know I can’t stand to hear you talk this way. I’m not strong enough. I’ve put up with a lot, you know I have, without ever losing my dignity. It hasn’t been easy being the wife of Caesar. I’ve even accepted not having a child, not giving you an heir. But this I can’t bear.’
She burst into tears.
Caesar got out of his bath and wrapped himself in a linen cloth. He brushed Calpurnia’s hand with his fingers.
‘Don’t cry, please don’t. We’re both very tired and I feel alone. Silius hasn’t come back. I haven’t heard from Publius Sextius in days. Come now. Let’s try to get some rest.’
A peal of thunder crashed over the Domus Publica and the floodgates of heaven opened. A downpour of rain mixed with hail rattled on the roof of the building and pelted over the eaves. Each antefix on the roof vomited a spray of dirty water on to the pavement below, while the flashes of lightning illuminated the leering satyr masks with a ghostly light.
Calpurnia reached over to her husband in their bed and curled her arm over his chest, rested her head on his shoulder. She held him thus until she could hear his breathing becoming deep and regular. Julius Caesar slept. Then Calpurnia abandoned herself to sleep as well, lulled by the sound of water on the roof.
Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart., tertia vigilia
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, third guard shift, two a.m.
The marble statue of Julius Caesar at the entrance to the Domus Publica shone under the beating rain. The right arm of the perpetual dictator was raised in an oratorical pose and the breastplate he wore, sculpted in grey marble, gleamed like real metal. A sudden flash lit up the statue, then a bolt of lightning struck it full on and exploded Caesar’s likeness into a million pieces, which flew in every direction, then clattered down the stairway. On the pedestal only the legs remained, truncated below the knees, and the statue’s feet, still strapped into their military sandals.
Jolted awake in the dead of night by the crash of thunder, Calpurnia sat up in bed and saw that the window shutters had become unhooked and were banging noisily against the outside wall. The statue flashed into her mind and she screamed. A shrill, prolonged shriek that Caesar stopped by pulling her close in bed.
‘Calm down! It’s only the window!’
‘No!’ cried Calpurnia. ‘Your statue was struck by lightning — it has smashed to pieces! What a terrible omen. .’
She got out of bed and ran towards the window, followed by Caesar, who had tried in vain to hold her back.
Caesar got there first and looked below. The statue was in its place.
‘It was only a dream,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened. The statue is intact.’
Calpurnia approached hesitantly, as if she were afraid to look. Caesar was right: the statue stood upright on its pedestal, glittering with rain at every flash of lightning.
‘Go back to sleep now,’ Caesar told her. ‘Try to calm down.’ But as he said those words he felt his own terror mounting and knew that an attack was coming on. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. He went to the ground floor on the excuse of needing a glass of water and made for Antistius’s room to wake him, but then he paused.