The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘No, not that I know of.’

  ‘If a letter arrives from him, inform me immediately, at any time of day or night and no matter what I am doing.’

  ‘You’re expected shortly at the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus at the Capitol to offer a sacrifice. If you’re feeling strong enough, of course.’

  Caesar took another sip of the potion and looked Silius in the eye.

  ‘Of course. At times I forget I’m the High Priest of Rome and yet it should be my foremost concern . . . No bath and no massage, then.’

  ‘That depends on you, Caesar,’ replied Silius.

  ‘Remember: wake me, even if I’m sleeping.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If a message from Sextius arrives.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry.’

  ‘It should be the first of my concerns . . .’ he repeated, as if talking to himself.

  Silius looked at him with a puzzled expression, trying to follow Caesar’s meandering thoughts.

  ‘. . . my priesthood, that is. And yet I’ve never believed that the gods care a whit about us. Why should they?’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard you say such a thing. What are you thinking of, commander?’

  ‘Don’t you know why we burn victims on the altar day after day? It’s so that the gods will see the smoke rising from our cities and remember not to trample them when they walk invisibly on the earth. Otherwise they would crush us as easily as we crush an ant.’

  ‘What an interesting analogy, sir,’ replied Silius. ‘Antistius said to drink it all,’ he added, pointing.

  Caesar picked up the cup again and downed the potion.

  ‘In fact, there is no smoke so black or so dense as that of scorched flesh. Believe me, I know.’

  Silius knew as well. And he knew what his commander was thinking of. Silius had been at his side at Pharsalus and at Alexandria, in Africa and in Spain. Ever since Caesar had crossed the Rubicon, the bodies he’d seen burning had been those not of uncivilized enemies but of citizens like himself. The bodies of Roman citizens. Burned into Silius’s memory were images of the battlefield of Pharsalus covered with the corpses of fifteen thousand fellow citizens, including knights, senators, former magistrates. From his horse, Caesar had scanned the field of slaughter with the eyes of a hawk. He had said, ‘It’s what they asked for,’ but in a low voice, as if talking to himself, as if to clear his conscience.

  It was Caesar who shook Silius from his thoughts this time, saying, ‘Come now. They’re waiting for us and I still have to get ready.’

  They went down together and Silius helped Caesar to wash and dress.

  ‘Shall I call for the litter?’ Silius asked.

  ‘No. We’ll go on foot. The stroll will do me good.’

  ‘Then I’ll call your guard.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. Actually, I’m thinking I should get rid of them.’

  ‘Of your personal guard? Why would you do that?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of going around my own city with bodyguards. That’s what tyrants do.’

  Silius regarded him with amazement but said nothing. He blamed Caesar s strange attitude and behaviour on his illness. Could the disease be influencing the way he thought?

  ‘After all,’ Caesar continued, ‘the senators have approved a senatus consultum in which they swear to shield me with their own bodies if my person should be threatened. What better defence could I ask for?’

  Silius was dumbfounded. He couldn t believe what he was hearing and was already thinking of how to prevent Caesar from taking such a foolhardy decision. He asked to be excused, went down to the ground floor and instructed several of the servants to follow them at a distance with a litter.

  THEY WALKED down the Sacred Way, passing in front of the Temple of Vesta and the basilica that Caesar was building with the spoils of his campaign against the Gauls. Although he had dedicated it two years before, driven by a sense of urgency even then, the work had not yet been completed.

  It was a magnificent structure nonetheless, clad in precious marble, with a wide central nave and two aisles. The basilica was one of the gifts that Caesar had offered the city, but certainly not the last. Since his return from Alexandria, Rome no longer satisfied him. The city had grown in a disorderly, unharmonious way, building upon building, creating an impression of unseemly clutter. The imposing roads, majestic palaces and extraordinary monuments of Alexandria, which excited the admiration of visitors from every part of the world, were utterly lacking in Rome.

  The Forum to their right was beginning to fill up with people, but no one noticed Caesar because he’d pulled his toga over his head and his face wasn’t visible. They passed in front of the Temple of Saturn, the god who had ruled during the Age of Gold, back when men were happy with what the soil and their flocks offered them. Back when men lived in simple wooden huts, sleeping soundly after a modest meal shared around the table with their wives and children, before waking to birdsong.

  Silius found himself thinking that the age destiny had reserved for him was quite different: an age of ferocity and greed, of incessant conflict, civil strife, the slaughter of Romans by other Romans, citizens banished, exiled, sentenced to death. A violent age, an age of war and betrayal. And hatred between brothers was the fiercest and most implacable hatred of all, Silius mused, as he glanced over at Caesar’s face, which was carved by the shadows of the toga that fell at the sides of his head. He wondered whether this man might truly be the founder of a new age. An age in which these seemingly endless hostilities would run their course and open on to an era of peace so lasting that it would make men forget how much blood had been spilled and how tenaciously their rancour had gripped them. He raised his eyes to the grand temple which dominated the city from the top of the Capitol.

  The sky was dark.

  2

  Romae, in via Sacra, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora secunda

  Rome, the Sacred Way, 8 March, seven a.m.

  A MASSIVE BATTLE STEED came forth from the main gate of Alesia, its proud rider dressed in gleaming armour and wearing the phalera he had been awarded for bravery and valour.

  Caesar waited, cloaked in red, seated on the magistrate’s chair outside the camp fortifications, surrounded by his officers and legionaries.

  The city bastions were packed with a mute, unbelieving crowd, who watched as their supreme leader went forth to give himself up.

  The great warrior rode his horse once around the man who had defeated him, then dismounted and cast off his weapons. He threw them at Caesar’s feet and sat down on the bare ground. By handing himself over to the Romans, he hoped to spare the city and the people he had ruled.

  AGAIN: one of those flashes of memory that struck him with such force and frightening realism that he could not distinguish it from the physical world around him. He started when he heard Silius’s voice.

  ‘Are you not feeling well, commander?’

  Caesar turned towards the Tullian prison. ‘Why did I have Vercingetorix killed?’ he murmured.

  ‘What are you saying, commander? It’s the law, everyone knows that. A defeated enemy is paraded behind the triumphal chariot and then strangled. That’s the way it’s always been.’

  ‘But it’s barbaric. Traditions . . . should preserve values worth preserving, not be a throwback to archaic, primitive times and ferocious customs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say our times were any better.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Commander, only one rule holds: “Vae victis!” Woe to the vanquished. One must seek victory, always, as long as it is possible.’

  ‘I just saw his ghost. Emaciated, with sunken eyes and a long beard. Madness in his eyes.’

  ‘A man in your position should never be touched by remorse. Other men are held accountable for their actions, but you answer to no one, Caesar. You did what you felt was necessary. That’s all. That’s all there is to it. Remember when the battle seemed lost in Spain, at Munda? We were rea
dy to die. Vercingetorix could have done the same and spared himself such an ignominious end. But deliberately taking your own life requires much more courage than slaying your enemies in the heat of battle.’

  Without replying, Caesar continued on.

  Silius hung back for a moment, watching as Caesar mounted the last ramp leading to the Capitol. His stride was energetic, resolute – a soldier’s stride. He had weathered another attack and, if anything, seemed more vigorous for it. Perhaps even now he was convincing himself that he could overcome this illness, just as he had overcome everyone and everything that had ever blocked his path.

  The temple was open and the statue of Jupiter was visible inside. In reality only the head could be seen at first, but as one walked up the ramp, the perspective changed and, little by little, the god revealed his chest, his arms, his groin, his knees. It was an ancient statue, its features harsh and angular, its beard stiff. An effigy designed to be frightening, or at least to inspire awe. Jupiter was flanked, in the chambers on either side, by statues of Minerva and Juno.

  The two men approached the altar, where a small crowd was waiting. Some of them were senators, including several of Caesar’s friends. Others, like Antony, were missing. His duties as consul must have been occupying him elsewhere.

  The second and third rows were filled with commoners, all hoping for their share of the flesh after the sacrifice. The members of the Flamen College of Pontiffs, in full ceremonial attire, filed out from the temple door.

  As soon as the Pontifex Maximus, his face still hidden from sight, reached the altar, the sacrificial animal was brought forward: a calf, three or four months old, with budding horns. One of the servants accompanying the animal carried an axe, the other held a tray of mola salsa, a mixture of salt and emmer flour, the food of the Romans’ frugal ancestors. Caesar picked up a handful and sprinkled it on the calf’s head. At his signal, the heavy axe fell on its neck with a clean stroke. The head rolled to the ground and the body collapsed, blood pumping out.

  Ever since his return from the last war in Spain, Silius couldn’t stand the smell of blood, not even if it came from an animal. He tried to take his mind off the scene by thinking about something else, but all he could come up with was the troubling news arriving from Syria and Spain, neither of which was completely pacified yet. He glanced up at the sky, which was getting darker and darker by the minute without dissolving into rain. Meanwhile, the thunder continued its low, distant roll over the mountains that were still capped with white.

  The servants turned the calf on to its back and sliced open its chest and stomach so the haruspex could examine the bowels and interpret the omens.

  Caesar was just a few steps away, seemingly absorbed in the scene, while his mind followed other paths. His illness. The expedition against the Parthians. The future of the state. Enemies still living, enemies who had died, the ghosts of the martyrs of the republic who tormented him still.

  All at once, his gaze chanced upon on the calf’s lifeless head. He’d been careful to direct his eyes elsewhere, but that’s where they’d been drawn, against his will.

  Silius glanced over at him at that moment and their eyes locked. Both were thinking of the same thing: of Pompey’s head, of the fixed stare of their great, defeated adversary. ‘They had it coming,’ was what Caesar always said, time and time again. True, he’d offered Pompey an out, more than once, and Pompey had always refused, but the thought of the decapitated head of the great Roman preserved in brine was something that would never cease to weigh heavily on his heart.

  And his mind.

  Gossips had even been known to suggest that the young Egyptian king Ptolemy XIII – the husband and brother of Cleopatra – had relieved Caesar of a thankless but inevitable task by killing Pompey himself, thus giving Caesar the chance to publicly spill a few tears over his former son-in-law.

  The haruspex had plunged his hands into the bowels of the sacrificial calf and was searching through the steaming entrails. His confident gestures suddenly grew confused and dismay was apparent in his eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of panic and the onlookers were becoming aware that something had gone wrong. Caesar noticed as well and drew closer to the haruspex. Silius also approached, overcoming his revulsion for the blood and the stench of slaughter.

  ‘What is it?’ Caesar demanded of the haruspex. ‘What do you see?’

  The ashen-faced priest stammered, ‘The heart . . . I can’t find the heart. It’s a terrible omen.’

  ‘Not another word from you,’ growled Caesar.

  Setting aside his toga and rolling his tunic sleeves up past his elbows, he sank his hands resolutely into the animal’s chest cavity. A dark gurgle and, for an instant, Silius thought he saw an anguished look of uncertainty in Caesar’s eyes. But only for an instant.

  Caesar had a basin of water brought to him so he could wash his hands and, as the water turned red, he said, ‘It was covered with fat and was a bit smaller than normal. This man is incompetent and that makes him dangerous. Get rid of him. Now burn it all,’ he ordered, to the consternation of the populace watching the sacrifice. ‘The gods mustn’t be kept waiting.’

  He had another basin of water brought, finished washing and used the white linen cloth the servant held out to dry his hands.

  Silius walked away and went up the steps towards the sanctuary portico. From there he could see the crowd of onlookers below, scattering and going off in different directions. A fire was lit on the altar and the animal was cut to pieces and burned in the flames. But that was of no interest to Silius; he wanted to be certain that the litter had been brought to the appointed place and that the men were alert and ready if needed.

  He lingered, turning towards the interior of the temple, as if he meant to pay homage to the gods of the Triad standing straight and still in the shadows, when his attention was caught by something glittering on the purple cushion at the feet of the statue of Jupiter, so tall its head nearly touched the ceiling. It was a golden crown. A scroll carved into the wooden base proclaimed: TO JUPITER, THE ONLY KING OF THE ROMANS.

  He glanced back at the altar, where Caesar was presiding over the traditional rites of purification which ended the sacrificial celebrations, then slowly walked down the steps again.

  The clouds still hid the sun, parting here and there to show wisps of blue, only to close back instantly to grey. Silius waited on the south side of the steps until the Pontifex Maximus had finished saying his goodbyes and then accompanied him back to the Sacred Way. The litter followed at a respectful distance.

  From the Forum they could hear the buzz of the crowd that had begun to gather for the day’s business: shouting from vendors in the shops and pedlars on the street, a magistrate at the Rostra calling for people’s attention.

  ‘If you found the heart, why didn’t you pull it out?’ asked Silius.

  ‘Rooting around in the bowels of a butchered animal is disgusting and there was no need for it. The animal was alive, so it must have had a heart. Do you know the story of Anaxagoras’s calf ?’

  ‘I don’t believe I do, Caesar.’

  ‘Back when Pericles was just entering politics, there was a calf born in Athens with a single horn. Pericles consulted a seer, who told him that it was an omen. It meant that the people’s party, which had two leaders, Pericles and Ephialtes, would soon be led by one man alone and that man would be Pericles. Anaxagoras the philosopher was immediately summoned to give his interpretation. He opened the animal’s skull straight away and examined its brain, where he found gross abnormalities. He explained the true reason why the calf was born with a single horn: because of a physical deformation. There’s always an explanation, Silius. And if we can’t find one, it doesn’t follow that we’re looking at a miracle, but simply at our own ignorance and inadequacy. All it means is that we are unable to understand the reasons for whatever has happened.’

  They had reached the base of the ramp, where the Sacred Way turned right towards the Temple of Saturn and t
he basilica. Caesar went to sit under the Ficus Ruminalis, which was just coming into leaf. Tradition had it that Romulus and Remus had been nursed by the she-wolf under this very fig tree. Caesar often chose to sit there quietly and listen to what passers-by were saying, without letting himself be recognized.

  ‘What did you go into the temple for?’ Caesar asked suddenly. ‘To pray?’

  ‘To read an inscription,’ Silius replied. ‘An inscription in front of a golden crown. I’d always heard about it and I was curious to see it for myself. It’s the one everyone’s been talking about, isn’t it, commander?’

  A few drops of rain thudded down and the smell of wet dust filled the air. Caesar didn’t move; he knew the shower would soon end. Others ran for shelter under the portico of the basilica.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one that people couldn’t stop talking about.’

  ‘You had sent me on a mission to Capua that day, and when I got back I was never really able to piece together what had actually happened. I heard at least half a dozen different versions.’

  ‘Which just goes to show that recovering the historical truth of an event is impossible. Not only is the power of each individual’s memory different, but the very thing that draws the attention of one man will completely escape that of another. Even if we concede that an individual is acting in good faith, he will remember only what made an impression on him, not what actually happened before his eyes. So, then, which version did you believe?’

  ‘That you were attending the Lupercalia festival. Antony offered you the king’s crown twice and twice you refused it. You arranged for it to be gifted to Jupiter, the only king of the Romans.’

  ‘False,’ replied Caesar.

  Silius looked up in surprise. ‘Do you mean to say you accepted it?’

  ‘No. But that’s not the way it happened. If Antony had truly offered me the king’s crown, do you think he would have done so without obtaining my permission first, or without me asking him to do so?’