The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘If they’re in such a hurry, they’ll use the easiest roads to travel, so it shouldn’t be impossible to intercept them . . .’ His finger traced the black lines that represented the consular roads. ‘The Via Cassia . . . or the Via Flaminia. What’s more, I’ve been told that it’s stormy up on the mountains and that certain passes have been blocked by snow. The couriers I’d been expecting showed up here almost a full day late. Your men won’t have an easy time crossing.’

  He lifted his eyes and looked directly at Mustela. ‘Besides Publius Sextius, who did you see?’

  ‘A stocky man, not very tall, grey beard, hands as huge as a bear’s paws, eyebrows joined up over his nose.’

  ‘All right. And then? What did they say to each other? Give me a clue.’

  Mustela shook his head. ‘How can I do that? I don’t have the slightest idea, but I saw this bloke send a signal, so I’m thinking that other messengers may have been sent out as well. Anyway, if we’re willing to wager that they’ll use the main roads, at least for the last stage of their journey, they’ll have to carry considerable sums of money with them or make big promises with the innkeepers on the way if they want to keep changing their horses.’

  ‘But they won’t be the only ones. We risk killing off someone who is just going about his business. A merchant, for instance.’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take. Anyway, there is something that sets them apart.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The hurry they’re in. A damned great hurry. No one will be trying to move as fast as they are. That’s how we’ll recognize them.’

  ‘I could send light signals . . .’

  ‘No. You can’t include enough information, and anyway, they can read them too. They’re professionals, remember, and probably well organized. And if I’m here, that means they’re probably still crossing the mountains, and will be able to see them easily.’

  ‘You may be right. Let’s split up, then.’

  ‘I’ll take the old Etruscan trail,’ said Mustela.

  ‘We’ll cover the other roads.’

  Mustela realized that the man hadn’t revealed his name. But that was part of the game. From what he’d seen of the mementoes on the walls and the suit of armour in the corner, he was willing to bet that the master of the villa was one of Pompey’s veterans. Had probably fought with him at Pharsalus. He was one of those who had held out, the tough ones who had never surrendered and never asked anyone to pardon them. He was surely in touch with the other supporters of Pompey who were still in hiding. He would do anything in his power to stop those couriers from reaching Rome.

  ‘I need a horse,’ said Mustela.

  ‘Ready and waiting. But are you sure you want to go on? You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re in bad shape. The stitches might not hold.’

  ‘I have a contract to fulfil. And if I make it to the end this time, I just might be ready to leave this line of work. I’m too old to run myself ragged like this. But you’re right. If I get on a horse, I’m done for. Give me a light vehicle with a couple of horses, some supplies and a blanket or two.’

  ‘As you wish,’ replied the officer.

  He took Mustela to the stables, where he picked out a couple of sturdy animals and had them hitched up to a wagon. Mustela got on board as a servant was loading the supplies he’d asked for.

  ‘Which way will you go?’ asked the officer.

  ‘I’ll head down the Etruscan road towards the Via Cassia, but I might decide along the way to follow my nose,’ replied the informer. ‘That’s why they call me Mustela, the weasel.’

  As soon as he was ready, he called out to the horses and flicked the reins on their backs. As he was riding off, he said, ‘Tell me, commander, why do they call him “the Cane”?’

  ‘Publius Sextius?’ shot back the veteran with a smirk. ‘I hope you don’t find out on your own hide.’

  ‘Get the others moving fast,’ said Mustela as he set off. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

  He rode off down the path that led from the villa towards the open plain.

  A nasty north wind had picked up, fresh from the frosty Apennine ridges, the kind that chills your flesh and gets into your bones. Mustela was still weak and light-headed, but he felt refreshed by the medical treatment he’d received and food he’d been given. He was starting out well rested and he knew he had a vehicle he could put to good use when he felt weary or sleepy. As he ventured into the countryside heading south, he thought that, after all, this wasn’t the first time he’d been in such a fix; in fact, he’d been in worse, but if things went as they should, this would be the last time.

  INSIDE THE VILLA, the officer mustered his men. A couple of them were his bodyguards and came from the gladiators’ school in Ravenna, another couple had served in his unit during the war in Africa and a fifth, Decius Scaurus, was the most experienced of his veterans and had also served in Gaul under Caesar. He rallied them in the peristyle and addressed them.

  ‘Listen closely. Your task is to intercept a certain number of men who are moving along the roads that lead to Rome from Cisalpine Gaul. The most dangerous of them has a name and a nickname. Publius Sextius, known as “the Cane”. He’s a centurion from the Twelfth, a bastard who has nine lives, like a cat. Have any of you ever met him? He enjoys great fame in certain circles.’

  Decius Scaurus raised his hand. ‘I served in the Twelfth before going to Africa with you, commander. I know him.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll go with them,’ he said, indicating the other two veterans. ‘The man who left a few moments ago will probably be travelling the same road, but I wouldn’t lay money on his succeeding. The most important thing is stopping the messengers. As for you two,’ he continued, turning towards the gladiators, ‘you’ll recognize him easily even if you’ve never seen him. He’s five feet and a palm tall, neck like a bull’s, features carved by a hatchet. He’s covered in scars and he’s always got that damned cane in his hand. Don’t do anything stupid. If you find him, grab him from behind before he sees you, or while he’s sleeping. If you take him on face to face, you haven’t got a chance in Hades. He’ll kill as many of you as are there.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ replied one of the gladiators.

  ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ his commander hissed at him. ‘You’ll do as I say! You two take the Via Flaminia going through the mountains, the rest of you,’ he said, turning to the veterans, ‘use the Flaminia Minor and then turn on to the Via Cassia. Mustela prefers to work alone, but if you meet up with him and he asks you to follow him, do as he says. The other men you’re looking for are from the Information Service. One of them will be easy to identify – a big, burly guy with hands like a bear’s paws and eyebrows joined up over his nose. What I told you holds for him as well. He’s tough and probably an officer. There’s something else that will help you identify them. They’re all in a hurry. They won’t sit down to eat or stop to sleep. Maybe you’ll find them sleeping on their feet, like horses, an hour at a time, then off again. They are determined to get to Rome at any cost. If you succeed in this mission you’ll be amply rewarded. You’ll earn more than your miserable lives are worth. Now get a move on.’

  The men split up, hurrying to prepare their mounts and assemble supplies. The first to set off were Decius and the two veterans. They galloped away down the little path and, once they reached the end, took off to the left, disappearing in a cloud of dust. The others headed in the opposite direction.

  The man who owned the villa stood at the doorway watching them until they had all vanished from sight. He signalled for his servants to close up and went back to his study, where he could ponder what had happened in these few hours.

  His name was Sergius Quintilianus and he had fought against Caesar at Pharsalus, where he had lost a son in battle. From there, he had followed Pompey to Egypt. He had been on the ship that fated day, had seen Pompey get into the boat that had been sent from shore. Pompey had been led to believe that he wou
ld meet King Ptolemy, from whom he hoped to receive aid, but instead he met his death. Quintilianus had watched helplessly as the commander of Ptolemy’s army, Achillas, pulled out his sword and drove it into Pompey’s side: a terrible scene that continued to haunt his dreams. How many times he’d woken himself up, shouting, ‘Watch out!’ only to realize bitterly that there was no one left to warn. His ears were still full of the screams of despair of the women on board the ship as the sails were immediately raised so they could flee that land of traitors!

  After that, Quintilianus went to Africa, where he joined the republican troops of Cato and Scipio Nasica, who had fought and failed against Caesar at Thapsus. He had even taken up arms under Titus Labienus at Munda.

  The final outcome of all those battles was that he had lost his son and seen his own men massacred.

  He had always fought against other Romans. In defence of political ideals at first, then later consumed by hatred and a thirst for revenge. Always with infinite, piercing bitterness, a feeling that had eaten away at his soul and hardened him against himself and against the world.

  Finally, once there was nothing left to hope for and nothing left to believe in, he had retreated to the villa enclosed by ancient cypress trees. He had surrounded himself with armed guards, gladiators and cut-throats, and now and then he indulged in the pleasure of attacking one of his political adversaries. They lived such tranquil lives now, smug in their victory and certain that they were shielded from all danger. He paid well and his mercenaries never failed. Many knew who he was and realized what he was doing, but no one dared react. Their protectors were far away, while he was close.

  And merciless.

  Mustela had given him reason to hope. Perhaps all was not lost. If he could stop the message from reaching Rome, then everything would fall into place, just as it should.

  As he was brooding over his thoughts, he wondered whether he shouldn’t have gone out on his own, got into the game personally. Why not defy fate himself, run the risk of dying on a mission fraught with such danger? But he hadn’t gone in the end. He hadn’t saddled his Pannonian steed, black as the cypresses that loomed over his villa. There was no specific reason, just a kind of paralysis. He was so full of bile he was powerless to make any decision, much less take any action. All he could do was pace back and forth like a lion in a cage, in a house whose decorations spoke only of defeat and humiliation.

  Among his mementoes was a portrait of Cato, who, after being defeated at Thapsus, took his own life at Utica rather than live under a tyrant. He was portrayed dressed in a toga as he harangued the Senate. Quintilianus had been there, at that session, and he had been able to instruct the artist in such detail about the bearing of that great orator and patriot that the image was incredibly lifelike and very powerful.

  Sergius Quintilianus was a superstitious man as well. In a corner of the room, on a carved wooden pedestal, stood a wax statue of Caius Julius Caesar decked out in full triumphal garb, his decorations a testament to his victories over other Romans, his booty for having spilt the blood of his fellow citizens. The statue was pierced by a number of long pins that Quintilianus scalded in the lamp flame before driving into the wax. It felt like sinking iron into flesh.

  Now all he had to do was wait until his men intercepted those messengers. He had no doubt about the reason for such haste, even if Mustela had not explicitly confirmed it. The conspirators had finally decided on the day of reckoning. So it would be happening soon, even though the date remained a secret. Caesar’s murder.

  Could that be true? The death . . . of Caesar!

  The thought took root in his turbulent thoughts.

  In front of his eyes was a small door that was closed.

  Suddenly he got up and opened it. He found himself inside the little domestic sanctuary that he had dedicated to his fallen son, run through from front to back before his father’s eyes on the bloody field of Pharsalus.

  He had had a statue crafted, at the base of which was an urn containing the boy’s ashes. Every now and then he entered that place of pain and spent some time there. He felt as though he could speak to his son and hear his voice answering him.

  He said aloud, ‘I will go myself this time. I will be the one to avenge you, son. And if I fail, at least I’ll join you in Hades. I’ll have put an end to this unbearable life.’

  It had become quite dark. Sergius Quintilianus went to the armoury and donned the armour in which he had fought all his battles. He went to the stable, put a bridle and bit on the black stallion and, having mounted, spurred him on.

  After a while he had melted into the night, black as his own grief and hatred.

  In Monte Appennino, Caupona ad Silvam, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora duodecima

  The Apennine Mountains, the Woodland Inn, 11 March, five p.m.

  IT WAS STILL coming down. Not quite as heavily and without the wind, but the steadily falling flakes continued to thicken the blanket of snow on the ground. In the inn’s courtyard, the servants were shovelling the snow into a pile, trying to clear as much of the paved area as possible. The sentry on guard up on the walkway was struck by a dark figure advancing on horseback, coming towards the station. He called his comrade on guard at the main gate, Baebius Carbo.

  ‘Hey, someone’s coming!’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Carbo.

  ‘I don’t know. A big, heavy-set man on a fine horse. He’s heading this way. This place is funny all right. Not a living soul for days and days, then two in a row.’

  ‘All right. I’ll open up.’

  Carbo pulled back the gate and the horseman entered.

  ‘I’m exhausted and hungry,’ he said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘There’s a tavern inside,’ replied Carbo. ‘If you’ve got the money.’

  The man nodded. He handed his horse over to a servant with orders to dry him off, cover him with a blanket and give him some hay. He turned to Carbo then.

  ‘Terrible weather. Must be tough being on guard duty all night.’

  ‘We’re used to it,’ replied Carbo.

  ‘Many people come by here?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘A man of few words, I see.’

  ‘In my line of work we’re free with our fists, not with our tongues. But inside, if you’re interested, there’s a whore who does the exact opposite,’ replied Carbo.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m in a hurry. I’ll get something to eat then. See you later.’

  He entered and Carbo watched him until he disappeared behind the door.

  The legionary turned to his comrade. ‘That lout asks too many questions for my liking.’

  ‘He wanted to know if a lot of people had come by. He asked one question. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Well, I say he’s asked one too many.’

  The other guard shrugged and went back to his post on the walkway.

  The traveller came out an hour later, claimed his horse and went towards the gate. Before mounting, he called out to Carbo, ‘Valiant soldier! Listen, have you seen anything strange out this way lately?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Carbo, thinking to himself, I was right about this bloke! The centurion would be proud of me.

  ‘Well, have you seen anyone whose behaviour struck you as being odd? Someone who was journeying in a great hurry, for example.’

  Carbo drew his sword and pressed its point to the man’s throat. ‘Stop where you are!’ he shouted. ‘Spread your arms. If you make a move, you’re dead.’

  ‘What in Hades is wrong with you, you idiot?’

  ‘One more word, half a word, and I’ll slash you open from top to bottom like a billy goat.’

  The man obeyed, snorting, and let himself be searched.

  A moment later Carbo triumphantly pulled out a Celtic knife. ‘Look at this!’ he said to his comrade. ‘I told you I didn’t like this bloke and look at this. He’s armed.’

  ‘A lot of people are armed these days,’ said his friend sceptical
ly.

  ‘Listen, boy, put down that sword and I’ll explain everything.’

  Carbo called up loudly to the other guard, ‘Come down here. We have to interrogate him. This man is suspicious and I’ve been ordered to stop anyone who seems suspicious.’

  ‘You’ve been ordered? By whom?’ asked the other, but Carbo was unyielding.

  ‘Get over here, by Hercules!’

  The prisoner was held at knifepoint, bound and taken to the guardhouse. Carbo lit a couple of lamps and diligently set about his task.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘My name is Rufus.’

  ‘Rufus what?’

  ‘Just Rufus. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Don’t try and be clever with me. Why were you armed?’

  ‘Because I’m on a mission for the Information Service. So will you untie me now? I do exactly what you’re doing: I obey orders given to me by the state and this is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Listen, I have to get moving. Wasting a single hour could be fatal. I’ve been racing through the mountains like a madman, trying to gain time, and now you have me trapped here. Hey, if you untie me right now I promise I won’t report you.’

  ‘You are in no condition to negotiate. I’m the one who decides here,’ replied Carbo without batting an eye.

  The soldier who had been on guard duty with him broke in, ‘Listen, my friend, this fellow has me convinced. Why don’t we let him go? Interference with a state messenger in the line of duty can get you into real trouble.’

  ‘I want proof,’ insisted Carbo.

  Rufus was furious with himself for having fallen so stupidly into the hands of an inexperienced recruit seeking to get himself promoted, but he tried to stay calm.

  ‘I have a badge but I’m not authorized to display it with my hands bound. If I lose it to anyone, I’ll be expelled from the service. Untie me and I’ll show it to you.’