The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘What reasons shall I give for restricting his freedom?’

  Brutus reflected for a few moments. ‘Perhaps you won t need to. Artemidorus goes out very little as a rule. I’ll assign him an urgent task that will keep him busy for as long as necessary. If he insists on going out, tell him that it’s a temporary measure of discretion that the family is adopting for a limited amount of time. Or simply have him followed if he does leave the house.’

  Canidius nodded and withdrew without asking further questions.

  ARTEMIDORUS, in the meantime, was strolling along the peristyle of the indoor garden with an air of nonchalance until he found himself at the spot in which he’d made the hole in the wall that separated the latrine from the garden. He plugged it up with a little plaster mixed with water from the fountain. He wasn’t worried, but he did want to finish up the little investigation he was carrying out for his doctor, Antistius. He was convinced that there were still just a few names missing. One of the young slave boys who went to bed with him in exchange for a few coins had a friend who had lived since her birth in the home of Tillius Cimber, another person who had frequently visited the house at odd hours, and he was hopeful that his list would soon be complete.

  When he was summoned by Brutus a couple of hours later, he felt a bit uneasy. Brutus was a man who respected schedules and it wasn’t lesson time.

  Brutus told him that he was expecting visitors from Greece, a philosopher with his disciple, in a few days’ time. The Greek library was in disarray and must be put in absolutely perfect order before the guests arrived. He wanted to make a good impression and so he expected Artemidorus to personally – with a certain emphasis on the word – take care of the matter.

  Artemidorus agreed to do so immediately. In truth, it didn’t seem to him that the Greek library needed much tidying up. He’d consulted a text by Aratus of Soli just the day before and everything had looked more or less in place. At the worst, it might take him a couple of hours to sort through the scrolls. He walked to the west side of the house where the library was located, but even before he crossed the threshold he stopped dead in his tracks. It looked as though an entire horde of barbarians had ransacked the place, or that someone had been searching for something hidden among the scrolls that were lying here and there in utter confusion, either piled up in huge mounds or scattered all over without reason or logic.

  The sight of that disaster left him perplexed at first, but then a certain doubt wormed its way into his mind and fear replaced surprise. He set to work grudgingly, brooding over any number of the thoughts that were crowding his head, none of them reassuring.

  Romae, in aedibus M. T. Ciceronis, a.d. IV Id. Mart., hora nona

  Rome, the home of Marcus Tullius Cicero, 12 March, two p.m.

  A MESSENGER had appeared at the door, announcing that Caius Cassius Longinus was in the vicinity and asked to be received. Tiro told him to wait a moment and reported the request to his master.

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’ asked Cicero, interrupting his work.

  ‘No,’ replied Tiro. ‘I had the impression he was asking to see you alone. Perhaps the matter is confidential.’

  Cicero seemed almost irritated by the request. He was beginning to realize what a poor grip on reality the conspirators had. Along with a critical lack of organization and even of a coherent plan. This convinced him even further of the necessity of staying out of the plot, which risked being compromised at any time. But he couldn’t refuse such an immediate request. He sighed. Perhaps it would give him the opportunity to offer some much-needed advice.

  He replied, ‘Tell him that he can come in and that I will receive him, but he must enter through the back door.’

  Cassius. Always pale, gaunt, gloomy. His cold grey stare seemed to know no emotion. In reality, his character was no more stable than that of Brutus, his decision-making capacity rarely equal to the situations he faced. But he was a courageous man and a very good soldier, as he had proved in battle, during Crassus’s unfortunate campaign in the East.

  Cicero always tried to bring to mind everything he knew about a man when he was meeting him for an important reason, even if he’d seen that person shortly beforehand. Cicero knew well what went into a conspiracy. It was he, and not Cato, as Brutus had written, who had put down Catiline’s attempt to overthrow the state twenty years earlier. Then it had been almost an even struggle between those intent on destroying the state and those intent on saving it, and it had ended at Pistoia, on the field of battle. But now the power was entirely in the hands of a single man. The plotters had a great advantage: being close to the intended victim. Some of them were even his most intimate friends.

  When he finally arrived, Cassius entered and was accompanied to Cicero’s study by Tiro. He was even paler than usual and the tension that was clawing at him was evident in his leaden complexion and a distinct tremor of his hands.

  Cicero walked towards him and offered him a chair.

  ‘The time has come,’ said Cassius as he sat down, but Cicero interrupted him.

  ‘It’s better I do not know. No one, besides those taking part in the enterprise, must know. Apart from that, what did you want to tell me?’

  ‘That we’re ready and all the details have been decided. There’s only one thing we’re divided on and that’s Antony. Some of us – quite a few, actually – believe that he’s loyal to our cause and can be counted on, but I have my doubts about that. I think we have reason to fear him. He never leaves Caesar’s side. And I’m afraid he knows something.’

  Cicero pondered his words for a few moments, fingering the stylus he’d been using until his guest walked in.

  ‘What he knows is not of great significance, since he hasn’t made a move yet, and I don’t imagine he will soon. Antony has his own plans and, remember this, he is anything but what he seems to be. He is extremely dangerous. If you don’t remove him, this endeavour will end in failure. Mark my words . . .’ He paused, letting his silence make an impact before concluding, like a judge reading a sentence, ‘. . . Antony must die!’

  Cassius lowered his eyes and sighed. ‘We know. I myself and others among us are convinced of the wisdom of your words, but Brutus won’t hear reason. Listen to me, Marcus Tullius. You are the only person who can convince him. Allow me to arrange a meeting between you on neutral ground. There’s an old abandoned building at the docks near the Tiber . . .’

  Cicero stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

  ‘I cannot. I’m sorry. I must not be involved, because my presence will be important afterwards. As far as Brutus is concerned, I hope, and I believe, that he will come to his senses in the end. You yourself are convinced and that should suffice to induce him to reconsider.’

  Cassius understood. It was quite clear that they would not be able to count on Cicero until after the event. And it was for precisely this reason that a further precaution had to be taken, just in case something happened – something irreparable – before the fatal moment.

  14

  Romae, in insula Tiberis, a.d. Ill Id. Mart., hora decima

  Rome, the Tiber Island, 13 March, three p.m.

  MARCUS AEMILIUS LEPIDUS crossed the bridge on his horse and dismounted as soon as he reached the other side. The lictors were waiting for him, fasces in hand, to escort him to headquarters. These were honours due the magister equitum, whose authority was second only to that of the dictator, appointed during a state of emergency. In reality, both were extraordinary offices, with powers that superseded those of the regular consuls, who acted as the executive arm of the republic.

  Antistius watched him from the window of his office. Lepidus was slender and agile, despite his years. He wore his hair combed forward to cover part of his forehead. This was more a habit than a hairstyle and had developed over long years of wearing a helmet during the military campaigns in which he had served alongside Caesar and won his esteem. His features were spare, almost hawk-like: a thin face, sunken cheeks, an aquiline nose. In a ce
rtain sense, although he was quite different from Caesar, the two men had something in common physically, almost as if their long familiarity with the high command were contagious, somehow influencing their cast of features. He wore armour, with his red cloak belted over his embossed bronze breastplate. He briskly reviewed the honour guard, then entered headquarters. His duties as commander-in-chief awaited him, as well as his political commitments and the other business of the day.

  Antistius closed the window and returned to his work. He had been going over the day’s appointments for just a few minutes when a visitor was announced: Silius Salvidienus was asking to see him. He got up and went to greet him at the threshold.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and invited him to take a seat.

  He served his guest a cup of cool wine and took a diuretic potion for himself.

  ‘How is Caesar?’

  ‘He had a seizure last night but it didn’t last long and so I didn’t call for you. I’ve become quite the medical expert myself after assisting him for so long. Once the seizure had passed, he settled down and fell asleep.’

  ‘You should have called me in any case. You mustn’t take risks. This condition is treacherous. It’s best that I spend the night at the Domus myself from now on. Any other news?’

  ‘He’s called for a meeting of his general staff this evening.’

  ‘That’s why Lepidus is back. He’ll be there as well, I imagine.’

  ‘Obviously. Lepidus is Caesar’s right-hand man.’

  ‘Of course. And Antony is quite resentful of that, if I’m to believe the rumours I hear. Who else?’

  ‘Antony, naturally. He’s still a fine soldier. Caius Trebonius, certainly. He was governor of Asia and has an excellent knowledge of logistics in the area. Decimus Brutus, who’s had experience of commanding both infantry and cavalry and has always proved to be up to the challenge, even when commanding the fleet. He’s still young, versatile and altogether reliable as an officer. Caesar holds him in high regard, and is quite fond of him as well. He contributed decisively to victory in Gaul, more than once. The commander never forgets such things and knows how to return a favour, but it’s more than that. It’s more than just recognizing a man’s valour. Caesar believes deeply in friendship and in gratitude.’

  ‘I know. He’s already made him praetor and next year he’ll be the governor of Cisalpine Gaul.’

  ‘As far as I know, tonight there will be a preliminary meeting to assess the advisability of a campaign against the Parthians. Caesar is in possession of a map that Publius Sextius sent him some time ago which will serve to formulate a plan of invasion. But I’ve come to speak with you now for another reason. I was wondering whether you’d heard anything from your informer in Brutus’s house.’

  ‘No, unfortunately not,’ replied Antistius. ‘I’m hoping he’ll show up soon. If he has detailed intelligence we can approach Caesar directly. Even in the absence of hard proof, he may be persuaded to act with prudence.’

  ‘If we have names, the proof may come of itself. A number of unusual coincidences might be proof enough on their own.’

  ‘There’s Servilia as well. She may have succeeded in getting a warning through to him.’

  ‘I hope so. I have reason to believe that she found a way to see him. You know that Caesar’s no longer using his Hispanic guard?’

  ‘What? That’s impossible.’

  ‘It’s true. He told me he dismissed them because he doesn’t want to be seen as a tyrant. Only tyrants need bodyguards.’

  ‘Where’s the sense in that? Does he want to die? All it takes is one fanatic – one lunatic – who would like to go down in the annals of history and he’s gone.’

  ‘You know what? I think it’s a wager he’s made with himself. He wants to prove that his clemency and the generosity he’s shown, to friends and enemies alike, are sufficient to put him beyond risk. That he can walk the streets of Rome just like anyone else, without having to check his back all the time. He wants to believe that the people of Rome themselves are his garrison – his bodyguard. Along with the Senate, who have sworn to defend him with their own lives.’

  ‘He can’t be so naive.’

  ‘It’s not naivety. It’s his faith in himself and in the people. He’s the greatest man alive, Antistius. And only a great man can defy death so boldly.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but walked to the door.

  ‘We’ll stay in touch regarding all of this,’ said Antistius. ‘Let me know tomorrow who participated in the meeting Caesar has called for this evening and who, among those summoned, found an excuse not to attend.’

  Silius nodded and left without another word.

  Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. III Id. Mart., hora duodecimo

  Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, five p.m.

  ARTEMIDORUS had been attending to the library all day and had not yet managed to restore order to the chaos he’d found that morning. He was certain that the upheaval had been caused deliberately and the outright absurdity of the situation meant that he must obey without asking for any explanation. Perhaps this was just the start of a Sisyphean ordeal: once he’d reorganized the library, he’d come back the next day to find it turned upside down again and would have to start anew. What was the intention behind creating such a scene, if not to keep him busy, and distracted, and unable to deal with other activities? And if this were true, what activities was he being kept away from?

  The mere thought that Brutus knew what he’d been up to terrified him, but he didn’t dare make a move, demand an explanation or even give the impression that he was disturbed or frightened, because whatever he did would only worsen his plight. He tried to focus on the situation at hand with as much lucidity as possible and deduced that if someone had wanted to harm him, this was not the way to go about it. This ruse had been crafted to get across a clear message: ‘Do as you’re ordered and no harm will befall you.’ There was no other explanation, as he’d left the library in perfect order just the day before. At this point, he was even hoping to find the same mess the next day, in order to confirm his hypothesis.

  As he was painstakingly thinking all this through, the boy who sometimes assisted him came in. He looked around in bewilderment and asked, ‘Do you need help, Artemidorus?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I can manage on my own.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll be on my way. But if you need my help, just let me know and I’ll come immediately. I’ve done this kind of work before.’

  As he was speaking, the boy fingered the scrolls and their labels, picking them up and turning them over curiously. Then he took a little scroll nonchalantly from under his tunic and placed it on the catalogue table. He gave Artemidorus a sly grin and walked away without adding a word.

  At first the Greek didn’t even touch the scroll. It was as if he could feel invisible eyes watching him and he continued his work. But his gaze was increasingly drawn to that little roll of parchment and he finally gave in and opened it. It contained the other names!

  He felt overwhelmed by a huge responsibility. How could he ever have agreed to do such a thing for Antistius? How could he have got himself into such a fix? And now how could he get out? He could choose to ignore the scroll, but it was too late now to feign ignorance. The boy knew that he knew and so did his friend. If he did not pass on the information and the plot was averted by some other means, what punishment would await him? And if he did pass on the message and things ended up badly, how would the people on that list see fit to deal with him?

  He was floundering between Scylla and Charybdis, like Odysseus’s fragile ship looking for a way through the straits. In either direction he saw monsters with gaping jaws ready to tear into him. In the end, he did nothing. He hid the scroll inside another bigger one and changed its label, and then set back to work, trying to appear busy. He was so worried about getting caught that he was even afraid of himself. As time passed, however, an idea began to form in his mind, a plan. If Brutus’s faction won, the s
ituation could only worsen for him, seeing that the man obviously suspected him of something if he was treating him in this way. If, on the other hand, the conspiracy were thwarted thanks to him, the most powerful man in the world would owe Artemidorus his life. A man who had shown thousands of times how generous he could be to those who had helped him. Antistius himself had guaranteed this and the doctor had always been true to his word.

  Thrilling scenarios blossomed before his eyes. He could see himself in the house of the perpetual dictator, honoured and respected, dressed in the most sumptuous garments, delighting in the most refined delicacies. Served by young boys of beauty and grace who would respect him and indulge his every whim. He would have hairdressers, servants, secretaries. An opportunity like this came only once in a lifetime and he would be a fool to let it slip away. Therefore he would act.

  His hands swiftly sorted through the scrolls now, one after another: Thucydides slipped easily into place, beneath him Callimachus and Apollonius Rhodius, one next to the other, neatly filling the slots allocated to them. Luxury editions of Homer and Hesiod occupied the top shelf at the centre of the library, earning this place both chronologically and because of their literary eminence. Every poet, historian, philosopher and geographer was returned to the spot he had always rightfully occupied and when, finally, sweaty and satisfied, Artemidorus studied the outcome of his labours, he could see that the library had been restored to its original glory.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, more for having resolved his inner dilemma than for having completed the task assigned to him. But he did not leave the library. He preferred to remain there, reading and reflecting on how he could communicate the results of his investigation to Antistius.

  He opened the door a crack and noticed one of Brutus’s bodyguards leaning against the wall in the corridor. His arms were folded and he gave the impression of being there just for him. The first problem had been solved, but the one that remained was no less thorny.