The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

‘What’s that?’

  ‘Who sent you here? Who are you working for?’

  Publius Sextius hesitated a moment before answering, then said, ‘For him. For Caesar.’

  ‘What is your mission? To find out if a plot exists?’

  ‘Not as such. My immediate instructions are to contact several army officers who have informers infiltrated at the court of the Parthian king. I’m to provide Caesar’s general staff with advance information regarding the routes the expedition will take, procure special maps and see that they get to Rome.’

  ‘So then what are we talking about?’

  ‘My task is twofold. I’m also to discover if there is a plot and who the conspirators are. First name, clan name, family name.’

  ‘Is it Caesar who wants to know?’

  ‘This may surprise you, but no. It’s a very high-ranking person who happens to be extremely interested in Caesar’s state of health. Add to that that I’m just as interested. I’d give my life for him.’

  ‘Fine. Even if you won’t tell me his name, the fact of this person’s “extreme interest”, as you say, is a further sign that the plot may very well be active and ready to go into effect at any moment.’

  ‘Caesar is preparing an expedition against the Parthians. It’s plausible to think that this might be the moment to act against him. If he were to win, his prestige would increase beyond measure.’

  ‘You’re right. And Decimus Brutus should be departing with him, as the second in command of the Twelfth Legion . . .’

  Publius Sextius bowed his head in a pensive gesture. The screeching of birds broke through the fog before he saw their dark shapes streaking like shadows across the heavy, humid sky.

  ‘Decimus Brutus . . . one of his best officers. One of the few friends he trusts,’ he whispered. ‘Who could have convinced him to . . .’

  Nebula drew closer and Publius Sextius could hear the sound of three or four steps on the gravel path.

  ‘His friend Cassius, probably, or his namesake Marcus Junius Brutus. Or both.’

  Publius Sextius felt like turning round but stopped himself.

  ‘Why, though? Caesar has never harmed either Marcus Junius Brutus or Cassius Longinus. He spared both of their lives! Why should they want him dead?’

  Nebula didn’t answer at once, almost as if it were difficult for him to understand what Publius Sextius was getting at. A barely perceptible breath of air made the fog quiver as it rose from the ditches and the furrows in the ploughed earth.

  ‘You’re a true soldier, Publius Sextius. A politician would never ask that question. It’s precisely because he spared their lives that they may want to kill him.’

  Publius Sextius shook his head incredulously. He couldn’t deny that things were beginning to add up. Trebonius inviting Antony to take part in a conspiracy. Antony just a few days earlier offering Caesar the king’s crown in front of a vast, excited crowd who reacted badly. Decimus Brutus acting as though there were a civil war to prepare for . . . Vague signals that were now suddenly becoming very clear.

  ‘We must warn Caesar immediately,’ Publius Sextius said suddenly. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

  ‘It’s best he be informed as soon as possible,’ agreed Nebula. ‘Even if it’s not certain that the conspirators’ plans are close to being carried out. There are further leads I need to follow up. I’ll let you know when to make the next move.’

  ‘Help me get to the bottom of this affair and you won’t be sorry. I promise you it will be the best deal you ever made. You’ll be able to retire and live in comfort for the rest of your life.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Nebula?’

  He turned round slowly. Nebula seemed to have melted away, leaving no trace. Or was he behind one of those trees lined up in rows, watching him? Or inside the temple, perhaps, in some hiding place only he knew about, chuckling at Publius Sextius’s astonishment at such a vanishing trick? As the centurion scanned the land all around, he noticed a leather scroll tied with a string lying on the temple steps. He picked it up and opened it. It was a map of the route he was to follow to get to Rome.

  At that moment the sun finally began to break through the fog and stripe the ground with shadows. Publius Sextius put a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled, then watched as a bay horse promptly trotted up. He jumped on to its back and spurred the horse on.

  ‘No need to break your neck, centurion!’ rang out a voice. ‘It won’t be today, or even tomorrow.’

  But Publius Sextius had already disappeared from sight.

  Nebula came out from behind a stack of bundled twigs left by the men pruning the grapevines. ‘Then again, maybe it will,’ he said to himself.

  Mutinae, in Caupona ad Scultemnam, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora tertia

  Modena, the Scoltenna River Inn, 8 March, eight a.m.

  THE RIVER RUSHING nearby, swollen by recent rains, was just as loud as the buzz of the regulars and the customers planning to spend the night. Nebula entered after wiping his boots on the mat at the entrance and crossed the nonetheless muddy floor of the inn, settling into a spot in a corner at the back near the kitchen. The person he was waiting for was not long in arriving.

  ‘Well? How did it go, then?’

  ‘There are two missions, not one. Both are vital for the man who holds supreme power in our republic.’

  ‘Where is your man now?’

  ‘He’s racing faster than the wind along the shortest route that leads back to Rome.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Nebula gave a sigh, but said nothing.

  ‘All right. How much do you want?’

  ‘To get this information I was forced to go into debt and risk my very life.’

  ‘What a bastard you are, Nebula. Spit it out and let’s get this over with.’

  ‘He’s following a map that I made for him. I’m the only one who knows the route.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Nebula shrugged. ‘Too bad. That means I’ll have to make a hasty retreat before my creditors send me to the underworld. Into Pluto’s arms. But if I die, it’s all over, just remember that.’

  ‘Come outside,’ growled the other man, a veteran of the civil war who had fought on Pompey’s side. His arms had more scars than the paws of a wolf caught in a trap.

  Outside, they walked over to a cart under the close watch of a couple of nonchalant but clearly armed thugs.

  ‘You can put the money on my mule,’ said Nebula, handing him a copy of the map.

  The man stuck it into his belt, then smiled smugly. ‘Now that I think about it, it seems that two hundred ought to be enough.’

  ‘Do you really imagine you can screw Nebula? An idiot like you?’

  The smirk disappeared from the other man’s face.

  ‘You think you’re so clever. You’ll be giving me all of it, down to the very last penny. There’s a key for reading the map and the fellow who’s got it works for you lot at the Medias horse-changing station. Weasel-faced guy named Mustela. He’s in with me on this, you see, and he’ll open his mouth only after you’ve given him my receipt for payment, which you’ll find in the usual place. By then I’ll be long gone. Oh, and by the way, Mustela is included in the price. He’ll do the walking, because you’d never manage it on your own.’

  The man nodded, cursing under his breath, and transferred the money, all of it, on to the mule’s packsaddle. Nebula then mounted and set off at an easy trot.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ he added. ‘As soon as you have the receipt you’d better get a move on, because Mustela won’t wait long.’

  Romae, in Domo Publica, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora quinta

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 8 March, ten a.m.

  THE STORM had abated and, having gathered up his papers, Silius went from his office to Caesar’s.

  ‘There are documents here to be signed, commander.’
r />   ‘What are they?’ asked Caesar, raising his eyes from the scroll he was writing on.

  Silius couldn’t help but notice that he was doing the writing himself, in contrast to his usual practice. Since the day they’d met, Silius had always seen him dictating his thoughts. During the Gallic campaign he’d even heard Caesar, on horseback, dictating two letters at the same time, for two different recipients. But since Caesar had returned from Spain he’d taken to doing his own writing, as he worked on correcting and revising his Commentaries.

  ‘All acts to be submitted to the Senate for their approval: decrees, appropriations, payments for the army, special financing for paving a road in Anatolia . . . the usual. And there’s correspondence.’

  Caesar looked up sharply with an inquisitive expression.

  ‘Not from him, commander. Don’t worry. As soon as something comes in, it will be on your table in the blink of an eye. Or it will find you wherever you are.’

  Caesar continued writing, hiding his disappointment. ‘Who are the letters from, then?’

  ‘Pollio, in Cordova . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Plancus, in Gaul. . .’

  ‘Anything marked urgent?’

  ‘Pollio. The situation is Spain is still difficult.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Silius handed him Pollio’s letter, sent seventeen days earlier. Caesar broke the seal and gave the missive a quick look. Silius noticed his wide brow furrowing.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Everything that happens in Spain is serious. Pompey’s followers are still strong and still looking for a fight, despite it all. At Munda I was ready to commit suicide.’

  ‘Yes, commander. I was there too, but in the end we pulled through.’

  ‘So many deaths, though . . . They’ll never forgive me for that. Thirty thousand Romans cut to pieces by my men.’

  ‘They had it coming, Caesar. They asked for it.’

  ‘I see you like reminding me of my own words.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘No, it’s not. The phrase has a certain propaganda value, but it doesn’t hold up to in-depth analysis. No one willingly chooses to die. The massacre of that many valiant warriors was an intolerable waste. Just imagine, if they were still alive, they could come with me to make war on the Parthians . . . or garrison the borders of a world at peace.’

  He began scribbling on a tablet with a silver stylus that Cleopatra had given him.

  ‘You know . . . lately I’ve been adding up a few numbers.’

  ‘What kind of numbers, commander?’

  ‘I’ve been counting the Roman soldiers killed in combat against other Romans during the civil wars. Marius against Sulla, Pompey against Sertorius, me against Pompey and then against Scipio and Cato at Tapsus, then against Pompey’s sons and against Labienus at Munda . . .’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Nearly a hundred thousand dead. Some of the best soldiers to be found anywhere in the world. If instead of fighting among themselves they had fought united against their enemies outside, the dominion of the Roman people would stretch all the way to India and the Eastern Ocean.’

  ‘You’ll succeed where others have failed.’

  Caesar angrily rubbed out the marks he’d made on the tablet using the amber ball set into the stylus before speaking.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m tired. The fact is that I can’t stand being here in Rome any more. The sooner I leave the better. My departure would be opportune for a number of reasons.’

  ‘Is that why you’re waiting so anxiously for news from Publius Sextius?’

  Caesar did not answer, but stared directly into the eyes of his adjutant.

  Silius could not hold his gaze and lowered his head. ‘Forgive me, commander. I did not want—’

  ‘Never mind. You know I trust you. I haven’t told you anything because I don’t want to expose you to unnecessary risk. There’s a certain tension in the air. There are . . . signs . . . clues that something is about to happen. The wait is agonizing and I can’t take it any longer. Maybe that’s why my illness comes upon me so suddenly, when I least expect it. I’ve experienced many things in my life, but I must say that there’s an advantage to being on the battlefield. You know exactly where the enemy stands.’

  Silius nodded and watched as Caesar turned his attention back to Pollio’s letter, making notes on his tablet as he read. It seemed that months had passed since his early-morning crisis. Caesar was in perfect control of the situation, but he was tense, worried, and Silius couldn’t help him because he did not know what was upsetting him.

  Caesar raised his head again and looked straight into Silius’s eyes. ‘Did you know that last year, when I was in Spain, there were strange rumours circulating in the rear lines?’

  ‘What rumours, commander?’ asked Silius. ‘What are you referring to?’

  ‘Just rumours,’ replied Caesar. ‘Pass me those papers to be signed. I’ll read the letters later.’

  4

  Romae, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora sexta

  Rome, 8 March, eleven a.m.

  STRANGE RUMOURS.

  The expression nagged at him and Caesar’s words kept ringing in his ears. Silius tried to remember what had happened in those rear lines . . . because he had been there, in Marseilles, in Narbonne, organizing logistics, communications.

  It had been a bloody campaign, perhaps the worst ever. Titus Labienus had been there then, at Munda. Labienus, who had been Caesar’s right-hand man, the hero of the Gallic War, his second in command. Willing to take on any responsibility, to face any danger, never tired, never dispirited, never doubting. An old-fashioned Roman, a principled man, an officer with a formidable temperament.

  He had been at the head of the enemy formation at Munda, where the fight had been to the death.

  Labienus had deserted his commander when Caesar had decided to cross the Rubicon and enter the territory of the republic – a land considered sacred and inviolable – with weapons in his hand. He had gone over to the side of Pompey and his sons, to the side of those who had proclaimed themselves defenders of the republic, the Senate and the people.

  At Munda the clash had been of inconceivable savagery. The combatants on both sides fought with unrelenting fury and, at a certain point, it had seemed to Silius that their adversaries (despite everything that had happened, he still couldn’t force himself to think of those men as enemies) would prevail. It was then that Caesar had been prepared to take his own life. He knew that, if he lost, there could be no mercy for him, and he was convinced that, as an aristocrat, suicide was the only honourable way of ending one’s life in the event of defeat.

  But then the unimaginable happened. Labienus withdrew one of his units from the right wing of the formation with a view of reinforcing the left wing, which was under constant pressure, but his men had all instantly feared a retreat and panicked, abandoning their combat positions in a disorderly fashion. The battle ended in a massacre. Thirty thousand adversaries dead.

  Were those the visions that ravaged Caesar’s mind? Was the memory of such horror the trigger behind the seizures that were crippling him?

  But Caesar’s words seemed to be referring to something different: rumours circulating in the rear lines, strange rumours, obviously upsetting. What could he mean?

  Who should he ask? Publius Sextius, perhaps, the man Caesar trusted most. But the centurion was far away, part of some highly sensitive mission. No one knew when he’d be back. Silius thought of another man who might be able to help, a person who had always been close to Caesar but who also maintained relations with many people in the city. Someone he could arrange to meet without difficulty. Silius walked towards the vegetable market, and from there to the Temple of Aesculapius on the Tiber Island. He knew Antistius would be there.

  He found him examining a patient with a dry, irritable cough.

  ‘Has something happened?’ the doctor asked immediately.

&
nbsp; ‘No,’ replied Silius. ‘The situation is stable. I’ve come to speak to you about something, if I may.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘Not really, but I don’t want to stay away for too long, given the situation.’

  ‘Sit down in that little office there and I’ll be with you soon.’

  Silius entered the office and went to sit near the window. A couple of maniples of the Ninth Legion were stationed on the island and he could see the soldiers coming and going outside. They were carrying dispatches and duty orders to and from the bridges that connected the island to the mainland. Several people got out of a boat which had just docked, evidently coming from the sea.

  Antistius’s voice startled him: ‘Here I am. What can I do for you? Is it about your health?’

  ‘No, not mine. An hour ago I was speaking with the commander and he mentioned something strange.’

  ‘What were you talking about?’

  ‘I had taken him his correspondence and some administrative papers that needed signing and he came out with a phrase that had no connection at all to what we were doing. I could tell it was something that was troubling him.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’ asked Antistius.

  ‘Something like: “Do you remember last year, when we were in Spain, the strange rumours that were circulating in the rear lines?” As if the thought had been gnawing at him since then. It was his tone that struck me.’

  ‘What did you answer?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say, and anyway he changed the subject and asked me to give him the documents to be signed. But I thought that you might be aware of something. You were in the rear lines yourself back then, in Narbonne, weren’t you?’

  Antistius went to close the door that he’d left open and then sat down. He was silent for a few moments and, when he began talking again, his voice was low, almost a whisper. ‘A doctor in the rear lines of a large military expedition finds himself meeting lots of people, listening to cries of pain, to cursings and ravings, to the confessions of dying men. Men desperate to free themselves of remorse before embarking on that great journey from which no one has ever returned.’