He was fighting on the front line. A gigantic Gaul struck him with his axe and snapped his shield in two. He tried to defend himself with his sword, but he felt himself slipping on the blood-slick ground. He fell to his knees and was about to be killed when Publius Sextius, wounded himself, lunged at the enemy and ran him through from front to back with his sword. Publius was holding out his hand, helping him to get to his feet.
‘We’ll see this through, commander!’
‘We’ll see this through, centurion!’
A voice rang out from behind him: ‘Caesar? What are you doing here? I heard noises. . Why don’t you try to get some rest? Shall I prepare another potion for you?’
‘Antistius. . No, I just wanted a glass of water and I came in here to. . put out the lights.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I thought I was about to have a seizure, but no. . I feel fine.’
‘Any news of Silius?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Or Publius Sextius?’
‘No. I thought I’d send a message to the changing station, in case they see him. .’
‘Silius has already taken care of that. He told me so himself. If he passes through, they’ll stop him and let him know he should report to you at once.’
‘Good. . good.’ Caesar nodded meditatively. ‘Then I’ll go back to bed.’
He put out the lamps, one after the other, murmuring to himself, ‘Where are you? Where have you gone, Publius Sextius?’
Romae, in Domo Publico., Id. Mart, adfinem quartae vigiliae
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, end of the fourth guard shift, before six a.m.
Caesar was already up. Disturbed by Calpurnia’s nightmare, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Antistius heard him, put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen to prepare a hot potion of aromatic herbs. He took the drink to Caesar’s study. A trumpet sounded from the west, announcing the last watch.
‘The guards are going off duty.’
‘Yes. Today will be a long, tiring day. First you have a session with the Senate, then a private meeting with your chiefs of staff, followed by the ceremony on the Capitol in the late afternoon. And you have an invitation to dinner as well. .’
‘Bring me a cloak,’ said Caesar. ‘I’m cold.’
‘Don’t you feel well?’
‘I’ve got a chill and my head hurts.’
Antistius attempted to make light of this. ‘Lepidus’s wine doesn’t have a reputation for being the best.’
‘I don’t think it’s the fault of the wine. I haven’t been able to sleep well for ages now.’
Antistius touched Caesar’s forehead. ‘You have a fever. Lie down and try to relax. I’ll fix you something that will help you sweat it off.’
Caesar lay back on a couch and lifted a hand to his forehead. He would have liked to ask for news of Silius or Publius Sextius, but he knew there was no point.
19
Romae, in aedibus Ciceronis, Id. Mart, hora secunda
Rome, the home of Cicero, 15 March, seven a.m.
Cicero had already had breakfast and had dressed for the day, which was starting out chilly, in his woollen winter tunic. He was reading and taking notes on a waxed tablet. Another invention of Tiro’s. Two layers of wax were spread, the one underneath being dark and the one on top a natural white colour. The stylus scratched away the top layer and what he had written appeared dark on the white surface, as if he were using ink on parchment.
The discreet knock at the door was surely him.
Cicero answered, ‘Come in.’
Tiro entered, holding a letter. ‘It’s from Titus Pomponius,’ he said. ‘His servant brought it a few moments ago. It’s urgent.’
Cicero opened it.
Ides of March
Titus Pomponius Atticus to his Marcus Tullius, hail!
Yesterday I was not well. A strong headache tormented me all day and prevented me from attending to my daily activities. The usual potion of malva and rosemary didn’t help and my condition is no better today. Hence I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit as I had planned and I’m sorry about that. The storm kept me up most of the night and I’m sure that if I went out the wind and damp would only worsen my headache. I would advise you to stay at home as well today and to take care, because a strong north wind is blowing. May you stay in good health.
Cicero folded the letter. ‘Malva and Rosemary’ was the code that indicated an encrypted message. The serious nature of the letter was evident in the extremely ordinary content, which contrasted with the urgency declared by the messenger.
So the time had come; today was the day chosen for the enactment of their plan. The Ides of March!
‘I’ve had your litter prepared, master,’ said Tiro. ‘The session today is at Pompey’s Curia.’
Cicero stood and placed the letter on the shelf behind him.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said without turning. ‘It’s best I do not leave the house today.’
Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart, hora secunda
Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, seven a.m.
The storm of the night before had filled the city with debris: dry, broken branches, some with dead leaves still attached, were scattered everywhere, along with tiles which had fallen from the rooftops and been smashed to pieces and shutters torn from their hinges and carried off by the wind, now lying abandoned against the walls or on the pavements. Little clumps of unmelted hail remained in the corners of gardens and porticoes. The air was cold and crisp now.
The weather had cleared as the sun rose, so that now only a few ragged clouds skipped over the intense blue sky. In the distance, towards the east, the mountain tops were white with snow.
Caesar had eaten and was preparing to go out. He was standing in the middle of the atrium, wearing a pure-white, full-length tunic. He observed the servants as they helped him to finish dressing. One of them fastened a belt at his waist, another was lacing up a pair of elegant boots, while two more draped the purple-rimmed toga on his shoulders and around his left arm.
Calpurnia stood aside with a worried expression. As soon as the servants had left she continued what she had been saying before they arrived.
‘I had terrible dreams, awful premonitions. First, there was your statue exploding into pieces, but then I dreamt that I was holding you in my arms. You were wounded, dying. . Caesar, don’t go, I beg of you. Don’t leave the house.’
‘Listen to me, Calpurnia. You are a learned, intelligent woman. You can’t believe in dreams. They are nothing more than the consequences of our daytime anxieties, our fears or our desires. Dreams show us what we’ve already lived, not what we’re going to experience. Do you know why you dreamt those things? Because you’ve been listening to too many rumours and because I myself had the foolish idea of telling you about Spurinna and his ranting. That’s why.’
Calpurnia looked at him wide-eyed as the tears began to form. Her mind was full of nightmares and Caesar’s words could not dissipate them.