The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Carbo muttered under his breath for a while, then said to his comrade, ‘All right, then. Untie him. I’m curious to see where he’s hiding this badge of his. I searched him and I didn’t find a thing.’

  The other soldier obeyed and released the prisoner’s hands. Without missing a beat, the gigantic Celt landed a lethal punch and sent Carbo falling to the ground. He simultaneously grabbed his knife in a lightning-swift move and wheeled about to send its point straight at the other soldier’s throat before he had even realized what was happening.

  ‘Do you have questions to ask too?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ replied the soldier. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rufus. ‘If you don’t need me here any longer, I’ll be on my way.’

  With that, he jumped on his horse and rode off in the flurrying snow.

  Carbo got up slowly, rubbing his swollen jaw. His opportunity for glory had ended ignominiously.

  12

  Romae, in aedibus L. Caesaris, a.d. V Id. Mart., hora decima

  Rome, the home of Lucius Caesar, 11 March, three p.m.

  CAESAR LEFT the bath chamber and went for his massage in the small thermal room that had been set aside for him in the home of his brother Lucius, on the Via Aventinus. Antistius sat opposite him with a linen towel around his loins and a tablet resting on his knees.

  The masseur, a powerfully built man from Thrace, grabbed his shoulderblades and pulled them back, causing Caesar to utter a stifled moan of pain.

  Ah! My back isn’t getting any better! I don t know how I’ll be able to ride when I’m leading my troops in the East.’

  Antistius looked up from his notes. ‘It’s riding too much on all your previous campaigns that got you into this fix. That’s why your back hurts.’

  ‘It was the Egyptian campaign that really did him in!’ snickered the masseur. ‘They say that the filly you rode there really put you to the test!’ He loosened his hold and let his patient fall back on to the bed.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, you idiot. Just shut up and worry about doing your job if you can,’ said Caesar.

  The Thracian began massaging the muscles in his shoulders, then worked his way along the spinal column, dipping his hands now and then in a bowl of scented oil. The room was thick with steam and Antistius was sweating profusely, but he continued to make notes on his tablet.

  Caesar raised his head and looked at him upside down. ‘What are you writing, Antistius?’ he asked.

  ‘Names.’

  Caesar gestured to his masseur, who picked up his tools and left the room.

  ‘Names? What names?’

  Antistius hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Names of my patients. I write down their illnesses, the progress made in therapy, any worsening of the symptoms . . .’

  ‘What you say is credible,’ replied Caesar. ‘But something tells me you’re lying.’

  Antistius started slightly, but continued writing on the tablet. ‘Want to take a look?’

  Caesar sat up on the bed and stared at him with his grey falcon’s eyes without managing to meet his gaze.

  ‘It’s like playing at dice, isn’t it? You’re inviting me to call you, to see your throw. But to see one has to raise the bet. What do you want, Antistius, to raise the cup? To show me your dice?’

  ‘Nothing, Caesar. It makes no sense to raise the bet. There’s nothing important to see.’

  ‘Well, then . . . I pass,’ said Caesar, turning his gaze to a fresco faded by the dampness on the wall. It depicted Theban king Pentheus being torn apart by the maenads.

  A long silence followed, pierced by the loud squawks of a seagull fishing in the river.

  Silius walked in and approached Caesar.

  ‘The guests will all be present,’ he said. ‘And there’s a message for you.’

  ‘News about my . . . cane?’ asked Caesar.

  Silius shook his head as Antistius was saying, ‘You may have an aching back, Caesar, but you don’t need a cane. Not yet. And if you follow my advice you won’t be needing one for quite some time.’

  Caesar got up, put on his military fatigue tunic and followed Silius out, under the perplexed, pensive gaze of his doctor. They walked towards the Domus Publica.

  ‘Unfortunately we haven’t heard anything further from Publius Sextius. Why are you so worried, if I may ask? You have already got the news you were waiting for. What more do you require from him?’

  There was the slightest hint of jealousy in his tone.

  ‘You’re right, Silius, but I’ve been feeling the need to surround myself with people I trust completely and Publius Sextius is one of them. I want him here, now. When that first message came, I thought he’d be following soon after. It’s strange that he hasn’t arrived yet.’

  They had reached the Domus, and Silius led the way to Caesar’s study. There, sitting on a silver tray, was the minuscule cylinder of leather, bearing a seal, that had just been delivered. It had a worn look. Caesar smiled.

  Words rang in his mind: ‘Have it back, you villain!’

  Obsessively: ‘Have it back, you villain!’

  ‘Have it back, you villain!’

  It was Cato’s voice, ringing in his mind. Cato, who would kill himself at Utica. Caesar’s nightmare, the implacable ghost that haunted him like a Fury. And yet those words had brought to mind a situation more comic than tragic. It had happened twenty years ago, in the Senate. Cato had accused him of colluding with Catiline and his rebels in trying to overthrow the state, and as he was still speaking Caesar received a scroll in a leather case just like the one sitting now on his table. Cato had noticed the slave delivering it and he thundered, ‘Here is your proof ! This villain is receiving instructions from his accomplices before our eyes, in this very hall!’

  Without batting an eye, Caesar had passed the missive directly to the outraged orator, who, upon opening it, realized it was a torrid letter of love from his sister Servilia, inviting Caesar to come to her house in her husband’s absence. In very explicit terms that left nothing to the imagination. Cato had thrown it at him, shouting, ‘Have it back, you villain!’

  When he saw the stupefied expression on Silius’s face, Caesar realized that he had actually pronounced those words out loud.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said gently. ‘It’s just my condition. Sometimes the past becomes the present and the present vanishes like a distant memory. I live in uncertainty, Silius. And I still have so much to accomplish. So much needs to be done. But leave me now, please.’

  Silius walked away reluctantly.

  Caesar broke the seal with the tip of a stylus and opened the case that contained a tiny parchment scroll with a few words written in a hand he knew well. He smiled again and put the message into a drawer, which he locked.

  He walked through his bedroom into the dressing room, took off his fatigue tunic and dressed carefully, taking fresh clothing from a chest.

  Calpurnia walked in just then. A slanting sunbeam lit up her dark eyes. She was thirty-three but still had the fresh grace of a country girl.

  ‘What are you doing? Why is no one helping you?’

  ‘I don’t need help, Calpurnia. I’m used to dressing myself.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m worried. Normal for a statesman, wouldn’t you say?’

  Calpurnia looked into his eyes. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not going far. I’ll be back for dinner.’

  Caesar felt touched by a wave of affection for the woman he had married for reasons of state. She was meant to give him a child and she wanted to do so. He could feel her humble melancholy and it weighed on his heart. Calpurnia had been an excellent wife, above any and all suspicions, as Caesar’s wife should be, and he had grown quite fond of her. Perhaps he even loved her.

  ‘Who’s going with you?’

  ‘Silius. Silius will come with me. Tell him to wait for me in the atrium.’

  Calpurnia walked off with a sigh.


  Caesar finished dressing, adjusted his toga on his shoulder as he was accustomed to wearing it, then walked down the stairs.

  ‘Where are we going, commander?’ asked Silius.

  ‘To the Temple of Diana in the Campus Martius. But you stay here at the Domus. Everyone will assume that I’m here as well. If Calpurnia sees you and asks you what you’re doing here, tell her that I changed my mind. It’s a nice walk. It’ll do me good after the massage.’

  ‘Does this walk have something to do with the message I brought you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Caesar said nothing else and Silius asked no further questions.

  He walked to the temple, immersed in thought. He reached the sanctuary, entered the silent, empty building through a side door and went to sit on a bench set against the perimeter wall to the left of the statue of the goddess. It wasn’t long before the silhouette of a female figure with her head veiled appeared in the entrance. The woman walked straight to the image of Diana: a lovely Greek marble statue that portrayed the goddess in a short tunic, carrying a bow and quiver. The woman placed a few grains of incense in the perfume brazier.

  Caesar emerged from the shadows and stood behind a column.

  ‘Servilia . . .’

  The woman uncovered her head. She was still stunning, even though she was nearly fifty. Her hips swelled below her high-waisted gown and its low neckline revealed firm, full breasts. Only her face revealed the signs of all the emotions of a troubled life.

  ‘Who but me?’ she replied. ‘It’s been so long . . . I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Is there something you have to tell me?’

  They drew nearer until their faces were so close that their breath mingled.

  Servilia hesitated before answering. ‘I wanted to say goodbye, because I didn’t know if I’d see you again. Rumour has it that you’ve drawn up your forces for your expedition to the East. I didn’t know whether I’d see you before you left. You have so many responsibilities . . . so many duties, pressing upon you . . . so your old friend just wanted to see you, to say farewell.’

  Caesar took her hand and stood that way for long moments, as if unwilling to let go. Then he raised his eyes to hers.

  ‘I’ve stayed away for a long time before and you never felt the need to say goodbye. Why now?’

  ‘I don’t know. This huge enterprise that you’re taking on, it may keep you away from Rome for many years. Who knows? I’m no longer a young girl. I might not be here when you come back.’

  ‘Servilia . . . why say such a thing? It’s much more likely that something will happen to me than to you. I try to look to the future with serenity, but I’m tormented by such frightful visions . . . I feel cold . . . and I’m afraid sometimes.’

  Servilia drew so close that he could feel her nipples touching his chest.

  ‘I would like so much to warm you, as I used to do, when you loved me, when you couldn’t stand to be without me, when I was . . . your obsession. I’m worried to hear that you’re afraid of leaving for the war. You’ve never felt that way before.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of leaving . . . I’m afraid of not leaving.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you, truly?’

  Servilia dropped her gaze and fell silent. Caesar’s fingers brushed the big black pearl set between her breasts. A fabulously precious gift that he had given her, worn proudly whenever she was in public, like a soldier flaunting his decorations. He had sent it to her the day he married Calpurnia, to let her know that his passion for her was as strong as ever.

  ‘I want to go, to leave this city. Rome is against me. She is my enemy.’

  Servilia’s eyes were bright with the promise of tears.

  ‘The greater your power, the more you are envied. The greater your courage, the more you are hated. It’s inevitable. You’ve always won through, Caesar. You’ll win through this time as well.’

  She brushed his lips with a kiss and walked towards the door.

  ‘Wait . . .’ The word seemed to escape his lips.

  Servilia turned.

  ‘Is there nothing else you want to tell me?’ asked Caesar.

  ‘Yes, that I love you. As I always have and as I always will. Good luck, Caesar.’

  As she walked away, he leaned his head against a column and let out a deep sigh.

  Servilia crossed the threshold into the bright sunlight, tinted golden in the doorway. Her figure was about to dissolve in the rosy glow of the setting sun but she stopped, without turning.

  ‘Heed the warnings of the gods. Do not ignore them. That’s all I can tell you. Farewell.’

  She vanished.

  Caesar stood pondering over those words, which sounded so mysterious on Servilia’s lips. She knew how little stock he placed in the gods and in their warnings. What was she trying to tell him?

  He left the temple as he had come in, through the side door, and walked towards the Tiber. Servilia had disappeared completely. He couldn’t catch sight of her anywhere. A couple of beggars asked for alms without recognizing him. A dog chased after him for a little while, wagging its tail, then stopped, panting, weak from hunger.

  Further up the road on the right, near the banks of the Tiber, stood a sacellum, an old shrine displaying the image of an Etruscan demon, worn with age. As if by magic, as Caesar was approaching a man cloaked in grey emerged from behind the little shrine. He was neither young nor old, his hair was straggly and matted, his sandals unstitched. Jangling metallic discs hung from the cane he held tight in his hand. Caesar recognized him. He was an Etruscan augur, from an ancient, noble family, the Spurinna line. He led a lowly life, scraping by thanks to the offerings of the faithful and those who came to him to learn what the future would bring. Caesar had often seen him attending the ceremonies at which he officiated, when the augur had sometimes been allowed to examine the entrails of the animals killed in sacrifice and to interpret the will of the gods.

  He meant to approach him and to greet him, but the man stopped short. He stared at Caesar, his eyes rolling, and hissed, ‘Beware the Ides of March!’

  Caesar blurted out, ‘What on earth . . .’ but he never finished his question, for Titus Spurinna had already vanished, like a ghost.

  Upset by the soothsayer’s words, Caesar wandered the city streets for some time, seeking to understand their meaning, while Silius, troubled by his long absence, was at the Domus Publica, preparing a search party. If anything had happened to Caesar he could never forgive himself.

  When he was close to the Tiber Island, Caesar was startled by the blast of a bugle that called him back to the real world: the signal that the first shift was mounting guard at Ninth Legion headquarters. He quickened his pace and soon met up with Silius at the Temple of Saturn, just as his adjutant was about to unleash a thousand men to turn the city upside down.

  Calpurnia, who had been told of his return, ran towards him weeping.

  Caesar looked around in amazement. ‘What is happening here?’ he said with a tinge of irritation.

  ‘We feared for your life, commander,’ replied Silius. ‘You were gone too long.’

  Caesar did not answer.

  In via Flaminia Minore, Caupona ad sandalum Herculis, a.d. IV Id. Mart., ad initium tertiae vigiliae

  The Via Flaminia Minor, the Hercules’s Sandal tavern, 12 March, start of the third guard shift, after midnight

  THE HORSEMAN rode up at a brisk pace from the snowy road. He was numb with the cold. There was a vast clearing at the side of the road where a stone house stood, covered with slate roof tiles. A squared-off stone wall enclosed the courtyard and a wooden shed with a lean-to on the right offered shelter for horses and pack animals, on a nice bed of straw. A sign hung over the main entrance with a drawing of the sandal that gave the inn its name. The place seemed deserted. The man dismounted and passed under the torch that lit the entrance, revealing the gaunt face and prickly beard of Publius Sextius, ‘the Cane’. He strained his ears and h
eard the faint sound of voices and other noises coming from the courtyard.

  He tied his horse to an iron ring hanging from the wall and knocked three times on the door with the hilt of his sword. There was no answer, but the door swung open and inside he could see a knot of people gathered around something near the stable. As he got closer he noticed a trickle of clotted blood at their feet, staining the snow that covered the ground.

  Publius Sextius pushed his way into their midst and found the object of their attention: the body of a man, lying with his face in the dung, with a large wound at the nape of his neck from which dark, steaming blood was still flowing. He was wearing a grey wool cloak, torn in several places and stained with dried blood as well. Cuts on his arms and hands showed how hard he’d fought off his assailants.

  Filled with foreboding, Sextius got down to his knees in front of the stiff body. He signalled for one of the bystanders to shine his lantern closer and turned the man over.

  It was the workman he’d met at the changing station. How could he have made it so far, so soon? Certainly by way of short cuts that he’d kept secret, but that had ensured he’d arrive just in time for an appointment with death.

  His hands were as big as shovels, his palms covered with calluses. The eyebrows meeting at the centre of his forehead, the bristly beard and the wide wrestler’s shoulders left no doubt as to his identity.

  Now he was only a poor lifeless thing.

  Publius Sextius felt a wave of fury swelling the veins in his neck and accelerating the beating of his heart. He turned to the bystanders and got to his feet, a man of imposing bulk, gripping his shiny, knotty cane in his hand.

  ‘Who did it?’ he growled.

  A timid, stout man with watery eyes stepped forward – surely the innkeeper.

  ‘Two blokes showed up three hours ago, from the south. We had already tended to their horses and they were about to leave when this man arrived. He watered his horse and asked for fodder and barley. He said he’d eat something in the stable, because he had to set off again immediately. I thought I saw the other two exchanging a look . . .’