The Ides of March (27 page)

‘Friend,’ he said, ‘I need you to take me to Rome right away, but I don’t have a penny to pay you with. I’m a centurion of the Twelfth and I swear to you, on my word, that upon our arrival you’ll be paid double what you usually charge for a crossing. If I’m lying you can keep my horse. What do you say?’

The boatman unhooked the lantern from the head of the boat and held it up to his face. ‘I say that it looks like you’ve been to Hades and back and that someone had better take care of you or you’re a goner.’

‘Take me to Rome, my friend, and you won’t be sorry.’

‘A centurion from the Twelfth, you say? I’d take you for nothing if I didn’t have a family to support . . . Get in and let’s go.’

Publius Sextius didn’t wait to be asked twice. He walked his horse up the gangplank and settled him on board, securing his harness to the mast and the railing. The boatman pulled in the plank, loosened the moorings and set off, following the current. Publius Sextius staggered down to the hold, dead tired and feverish. He stretched out on a pile of fishing nets, pulled his cloak over his head and fell into a deep sleep.

The commanding officer at the
mansio
saw his men come back empty-handed and flew into a rage. ‘Do you realize what you’ve done? That was one of Julius Caesar’s most trusted men. Not only did you nearly kill him, you couldn’t even catch up with him! A man who hasn’t slept in days with an arrow in his shoulder! So now what do we do? Can you tell me what we do now?’

His men stood there mute and confused.

‘It’s dark out there, commander . . . It’s not easy to find someone in the forest.’

‘You idiots! He said he needed money for the ferry. That’s where you should be looking for him. Find him, or otherwise we’re all up to our necks in trouble. Do you understand that? If you see him, talk to him from a distance. Make sure he knows that there was a mistake, that we have an important message to give him. Now move, damn you!’

They sped off, bound for the riverbank, but they still found no trace of the man they were searching for. All they could do was return to the station and report their failure. Black clouds were masking the moon and thunder boomed over distant seas.

Romae, in insula Tiberis, pridie Id. Mart., prima vigilia

Rome, the Tiber Island, 14 March, first guard shift, seven p.m.

A
T THE ISLAND
Caesar was welcomed by eight drum beats and the honour guard presented arms. Lepidus’s quartermaster received him and accompanied him to the room in which the other guests were waiting, chatting among themselves. Lepidus greeted Caesar with a cup of wine and took him to the dining room, which had been prepared for the thirty or so guests. Caesar was relieved that there weren’t too many of them; that meant he should be able to get away early.

The dinner turned out to be quite pleasant. There was no eccentric or extravagant behaviour on the part of his fellow diners and the conversation actually strayed to interesting topics, philosophy, mainly. Did the gods exist and were they the same all over the world? Were they different aspects of a single god or distinct beings, expressing the various aspects of nature? Was there another world where good actions were rewarded and bad ones punished, as some held, or was the human mind destined to simply go out, like the light of a lantern – with no revelation, no glimpse of eternal truth, only a cruel descent into infinite darkness and silence?

Little by little, the conversation turned to an even more disturbing topic: death itself. Each of the guests found something light and even elegant to say about such a serious subject.

Lepidus turned to Caesar at a certain point and asked, ‘What do you think would be the best way to die?’

Caesar glimpsed an expression in his eyes that he couldn’t interpret. He turned to the other dinner guests, who were awaiting his answer in silence. Then he looked back at Lepidus and said, ‘The best death? Rapid. And sudden.’

18

Viae Cassiae ad X lapidem ab Ocriculo, Idibus Martiis, tertia vigilia

The Via Cassia, ten miles from Ocriculum, 15 March, start of the third guard shift, midnight

T
HE VIA CASSIA
, lashed by the storm, was quite deserted, but Rufus continued his mad gallop under the pouring rain. He was soaked through and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His horse’s laboured breathing, the obsessive pounding of his hoofs on the ground, the lightning bolts themselves, all charged him with a mounting excitement and a flood of powerful energy. All of a sudden he felt the rhythm change and the animal’s breath turned short and wheezing. He tugged at the reins and drew to a stop.

A flash of lightning illuminated the milestone that indicated the distance from Rome. Rufus jumped to the ground and stood there for a while under the angry sky, stroking the horse’s steaming muzzle. He was frothing at the mouth and Rufus was moved at the thought of how much strain he had withstood. He decided to release him and to finish his journey with his other mount.

‘Farewell, my friend. Good luck,’ he said, then he mounted the second horse and dug in his heels, diving into the wall of water pouring down from on high.

The freed animal gave a loud whinny and kicked once at the sky, then stopped, head hung low in the middle of the storm.

Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, third guard shift, one a.m.

C
AESAR WAS
returning home, accompanied by Antony. He seemed despondent and withdrawn.

‘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.

T
HE 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.

The feeling had passed. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, like Calpurnia’s.

Instead he went to his study, where the oil lamps hanging from the big bronze candelabrum still burned. His glance fell on the table and the scroll of his
Commentarii de bello Gallico
, open on a rest. He laid his hand on the scroll and ran his fingers along the text, unrolling it on one side and rolling it up on the other. As if by chance, he stopped at the chapter which described the great battle against the Nervii. The scene opened before his eyes, so intense and so physical that he could hear the shouts and smell the acrid stench of blood.