The Ides of March

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart., tertia vigilia

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, third guard shift, two a.m.

  THE MARBLE STATUE of Julius Caesar at the entrance to the Domus Publica shone under the beating rain. The right arm of the perpetual dictator was raised in an oratorical pose and the breastplate he wore, sculpted in grey marble, gleamed like real metal. A sudden flash lit up the statue, then a bolt of lightning struck it full on and exploded Caesar’s likeness into a million pieces, which flew in every direction, then clattered down the stairway. On the pedestal only the legs remained, truncated below the knees, and the statue’s feet, still strapped into their military sandals.

  Jolted awake in the dead of night by the crash of thunder, Calpurnia sat up in bed and saw that the window shutters had become unhooked and were banging noisily against the outside wall. The statue flashed into her mind and she screamed. A shrill, prolonged shriek that Caesar stopped by pulling her close in bed.

  ‘Calm down! It’s only the window!’

  ‘No!’ cried Calpurnia. ‘Your statue was struck by lightning – it has smashed to pieces! What a terrible omen . . .’

  She got out of bed and ran towards the window, followed by Caesar, who had tried in vain to hold her back.

  Caesar got there first and looked below. The statue was in its place.

  ‘It was only a dream,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened. The statue is intact.’

  Calpurnia approached hesitantly, as if she were afraid to look. Caesar was right: the statue stood upright on its pedestal, glittering with rain at every flash of lightning.

  ‘Go back to sleep now,’ Caesar told her. ‘Try to calm down.’ But as he said those words he felt his own terror mounting and knew that an attack was coming on. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. He went to the ground floor on the excuse of needing a glass of water and made for Antistius’s room to wake him, but then he paused.

  The feeling had passed. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, like Calpurnia’s.

  Instead he went to his study, where the oil lamps hanging from the big bronze candelabrum still burned. His glance fell on the table and the scroll of his Commentarii de bello Gallico, open on a rest. He laid his hand on the scroll and ran his fingers along the text, unrolling it on one side and rolling it up on the other. As if by chance, he stopped at the chapter which described the great battle against the Nervii. The scene opened before his eyes, so intense and so physical that he could hear the shouts and smell the acrid stench of blood.

  He was fighting on the front line. A gigantic Gaul struck him with his axe and snapped his shield in two. He tried to defend himself with his sword, but he felt himself slipping on the blood-slick ground. He fell to his knees and was about to be killed when Publius Sextius, wounded himself, lunged at the enemy and ran him through from front to back with his sword. Publius was holding out his hand, helping him to get to his feet.

  ‘We’ll see this through, commander!’

  ‘We’ll see this through, centurion!’

  A voice rang out from behind him: ‘Caesar? What are you doing here? I heard noises . . . Why don’t you try to get some rest? Shall I prepare another potion for you?’

  ‘Antistius . . . No, I just wanted a glass of water and I came in here to . . . put out the lights.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I thought I was about to have a seizure, but no . . . I feel fine.’

  ‘Any news of Silius?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Or Publius Sextius?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d send a message to the changing station, in case they see him . . .’

  ‘Silius has already taken care of that. He told me so himself. If he passes through, they’ll stop him and let him know he should report to you at once.’

  ‘Good . . . good.’ Caesar nodded meditatively. ‘Then I’ll go back to bed.’

  He put out the lamps, one after the other, murmuring to himself, ‘Where are you? Where have you gone, Publius Sextius?’

  Romae, in Domo Publico., Id. Mart, adfinem quartae vigiliae

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, end of the fourth guard shift, before six a.m.

  CAESAR WAS already up. Disturbed by Calpurnia’s nightmare, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Antistius heard him, put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen to prepare a hot potion of aromatic herbs. He took the drink to Caesar’s study. A trumpet sounded from the west, announcing the last watch.

  ‘The guards are going off duty.’

  ‘Yes. Today will be a long, tiring day. First you have a session with the Senate, then a private meeting with your chiefs of staff, followed by the ceremony on the Capitol in the late afternoon. And you have an invitation to dinner as well. . .’

  ‘Bring me a cloak,’ said Caesar. ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’

  ‘I’ve got a chill and my head hurts.’

  Antistius attempted to make light of this. ‘Lepidus’s wine doesn’t have a reputation for being the best.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the fault of the wine. I haven’t been able to sleep well for ages now.’

  Antistius touched Caesar’s forehead. ‘You have a fever. Lie down and try to relax. I’ll fix you something that will help you sweat it off.’

  Caesar lay back on a couch and lifted a hand to his forehead. He would have liked to ask for news of Silius or Publius Sextius, but he knew there was no point.

  19

  Romae, in aedibus Ciceronis, Id. Mart, hora secunda

  Rome, the home of Cicero, 15 March, seven a.m.

  CICERO HAD already had breakfast and had dressed for the day, which was starting out chilly, in his woollen winter tunic. He was reading and taking notes on a waxed tablet. Another invention of Tiro’s. Two layers of wax were spread, the one underneath being dark and the one on top a natural white colour. The stylus scratched away the top layer and what he had written appeared dark on the white surface, as if he were using ink on parchment.

  The discreet knock at the door was surely him.

  Cicero answered, ‘Come in.’

  Tiro entered, holding a letter. ‘It’s from Titus Pomponius,’ he said. ‘His servant brought it a few moments ago. It’s urgent.’

  Cicero opened it.

  Ides of March

  Titus Pomponius Atticus to his Marcus Tullius, hail!

  Yesterday I was not well. A strong headache tormented me all day and prevented me from attending to my daily activities. The usual potion of malva and rosemary didn’t help and my condition is no better today. Hence I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit as I had planned and I’m sorry about that. The storm kept me up most of the night and I’m sure that if I went out the wind and damp would only worsen my headache. I would advise you to stay at home as well today and to take care, because a strong north wind is blowing. May you stay in good health.

  Cicero folded the letter. ‘Malva and Rosemary’ was the code that indicated an encrypted message. The serious nature of the letter was evident in the extremely ordinary content, which contrasted with the urgency declared by the messenger.

  So the time had come; today was the day chosen for the enactment of their plan. The Ides of March!

  ‘I’ve had your litter prepared, master,’ said Tiro. ‘The session today is at Pompey’s Curia.’

  Cicero stood and placed the letter on the shelf behind him.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said without turning. ‘It’s best I do not leave the house today.’

  Romae, in Domo Publica, Id. Mart, hora secunda

  Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 15 March, seven a.m.

  THE STORM of the night before had filled the city with debris: dry, broken branches, some with dead leaves still attached, were scattered everywhere, along with tiles which had fallen from the rooftops and been smashed to pieces and shutters torn from their hinges and carried off by the wind, now lying abandon
ed against the walls or on the pavements. Little clumps of unmelted hail remained in the corners of gardens and porticoes. The air was cold and crisp now.

  The weather had cleared as the sun rose, so that now only a few ragged clouds skipped over the intense blue sky. In the distance, towards the east, the mountain tops were white with snow.

  Caesar had eaten and was preparing to go out. He was standing in the middle of the atrium, wearing a pure-white, full-length tunic. He observed the servants as they helped him to finish dressing. One of them fastened a belt at his waist, another was lacing up a pair of elegant boots, while two more draped the purple-rimmed toga on his shoulders and around his left arm.

  Calpurnia stood aside with a worried expression. As soon as the servants had left she continued what she had been saying before they arrived.

  ‘I had terrible dreams, awful premonitions. First, there was your statue exploding into pieces, but then I dreamt that I was holding you in my arms. You were wounded, dying . . . Caesar, don’t go, I beg of you. Don’t leave the house.’

  ‘Listen to me, Calpurnia. You are a learned, intelligent woman. You can’t believe in dreams. They are nothing more than the consequences of our daytime anxieties, our fears or our desires. Dreams show us what we’ve already lived, not what we’re going to experience. Do you know why you dreamt those things? Because you’ve been listening to too many rumours and because I myself had the foolish idea of telling you about Spurinna and his ranting. That’s why.’

  Calpurnia looked at him wide-eyed as the tears began to form. Her mind was full of nightmares and Caesar’s words could not dissipate them.

  ‘What do you think I should do, then? Send a messenger to tell the Senate I can’t participate in the session that I myself convened because my wife has had a bad dream?’

  ‘You’re ill,’ insisted Calpurnia. ‘You have a temperature and you didn’t sleep enough. You don’t look well.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it. What would they think of me? I want them to approve the allocation of a sizeable amount of money for my veterans and I don’t show up because I’m complaining of ill-health?’

  Calpurnia was twisting her hands, then trying to dry the tears that were now coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘What can I do to keep you from leaving this house? Do I have to remind you what you owe me? That I never said a word or changed my behaviour in any way when I knew, when everyone knew, that you were betraying me? Must I remind you that I have always cared for you with devotion, even when the Queen of Egypt bore your child, even now that – I’m certain of this – she continues to send you ardent messages of love?’

  Caesar wheeled around to look at her, anger rising in his face, but Calpurnia did not stop her tirade.

  ‘Go ahead. Curse me, swear at me, disparage me. But do one thing for me, one thing alone! Do not leave these sacred walls on such an ill-omened day. I’ve never asked you to do anything before and I never will again. I will let you go dry-eyed when the moment comes. Just do this one thing for your legitimate wife. I ask you for nothing else.’

  She couldn’t help but burst into tears.

  Caesar stood watching her in silence, dumbfounded. In the end he gave in.

  ‘So be it. I’ll try to find a pretext that won’t make me seem ridiculous. But now, please, leave me alone.’

  Calpurnia left in tears and Caesar called his doctor.

  ‘I’m here, Caesar,’ Antistius replied, rushing in.

  ‘Send a courier to the Senate. Have him announce that I won’t be able to attend the session. You invent a plausible excuse.’

  ‘You’re not well, Caesar. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No. But it won’t be a problem for you to think of something more serious.’

  ‘Naturally. And I won’t have to make anything up.’

  ‘Go then. I can’t have the senators waiting for me.’

  Antistius threw a cloak over his shoulders and set off for the Campus Martius. As he was crossing the Forum he saw Cassius Longinus, Tillius Cimber, Publius Servilius Casca and a few others he did not know on the north side of the square.

  They were walking purposefully, in groups. Cassius had a young lad with him, no doubt his son, who that day would publicly assume the toga virilis, formally becoming a man.

  A cold northerly wind was blowing but the sky was quite clear and the sun was shining on the city. As they got closer to Pompey’s Curia, where the session was scheduled to be held, Antistius saw the litters of several noble senators whom he had come to recognize. Others, the traditionalists, were briskly making their way on foot, while others still, wearied by age, were using a cane or leaning on their sons’ arms.

  He saw Licinius Celer, Aurelius Cotta, Publius Cornelius Dolabella, and recognized an elderly senator who was a friend of Cicero’s, Popilius Lenate, then Caius Trebonius and others. He quickened his step so he would get to the Senate before everyone else did. When he arrived at his destination, he looked around and realized that nearly all the senators were present. He couldn’t see Cicero anywhere, but he saw Decimus Brutus and, a little further on, Marcus Junius Brutus, who was looking surly.

  He approached the table of the chancellor, the senator in charge of drawing up the minutes of the session, and communicated his message.

  ‘Caesar won’t be able to come today. He is indisposed and feverish and did not rest all night. I beg you to make his apologies to the assembly.’

  He was still speaking when Decimus Brutus leaned close and asked, ‘What has happened, Antistius?’

  ‘Caesar is ill. He won’t be joining the Senate this morning.’

  ‘What? That’s impossible.’

  ‘No, it’s true. He had a sleepless night and is running a temperature. He requests that the session be adjourned.’

  Decimus Brutus turned to the chancellor and said, ‘Make no announcement before I come back.’

  Antistius was struck by how coldly Decimus Brutus had reacted to the news, not even asking what the problem was with his friend and commander. He decided to return to the Domus to see what would happen.

  A murmur ran through the assembled senators, who were perhaps already consulting on the matters of the day. Now they had something else to talk about. Many of them looked worried. Some left the group they were with to join another, while others whispered into the ear of a companion, who nodded gravely or showed surprise, concern, uneasiness.

  Antistius left through the large portico and hurried back, taking care to avoid Decimus Brutus, who preceded him by about ten paces. He entered the Domus just a few moments after Brutus. He could already hear his voice and Caesar’s.

  ‘Caesar, the Senate is waiting for you. What’s wrong?’

  Antistius entered just then. Caesar was lying on the couch, looking grim.

  Antistius spoke up: ‘Haven’t I answered that one already? Can’t you see he’s ill?’

  Decimus Brutus didn’t even turn in his direction. He got closer to Caesar and peered at him, before announcing, ‘He doesn’t look so bad.’

  ‘I’ll decide how serious this is,’ replied Antistius. ‘He has even had an asthma attack,’ he lied. ‘He must rest.’

  Decimus Brutus struggled to hold his temper against the insolent little doctor who dared to contradict him. He ignored him and turned to Caesar instead.

  ‘You convened the Senate. Your absence will be interpreted as an insult, a lack of respect. In the name of the gods, don’t do this. We have enough difficulties as it is.’

  Calpurnia entered the room as well and said, ‘He’s ill. Go back and tell the Senate that Caesar is unable to preside over the session. Even a blind man could see how sick he is.’

  ‘Not going at all would be much worse than making this small effort. He can go in his litter. All he has to do is put in an appearance: greet the Senate, express his respect, apologize for his poor state of health and return home. In an hour he’ll be back. Not showing up would be a huge political mistake. It would fuel rumours, gossip, slander and n
astiness of every type.’

  Caesar sat up and turned to Calpurnia. ‘Decimus is right. I’ll open the session and then I’ll leave. I’ll just stay long enough to be seen and exchange a few words with some of the senators, then I’ll come back here. We’ll soon be having lunch together, Calpurnia, you’ll see.’

  He drew close and, in an affectionate tone, said, ‘There’s no need to worry. Trust me.’

  Calpurnia looked back with dismay and resignation. She knew she’d lost. Her eyes filled with tears nonetheless. Antistius did not move. He stood at the threshold, watching as Caesar’s litter went off, accompanied by Decimus Brutus, bound for the Theatre of Pompey.

  Romae, in aedibus Bruti, Id. Mart, hora tertia

  Rome, the home of Brutus, 15 March, eight a.m.

  THE BOY slipped up to Artemidorus’s quarters, after making sure that he was no longer under surveillance.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ replied Artemidorus.

  ‘Antistius sent me. I came to tell you that Caesar has left the Domus Publica. He had decided not to go, because his wife wanted him to stay, but then an important person – a man with the same name as your master – came to call.’

  ‘Brutus?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He convinced him, forced him really, to go and meet with the Senate. They’ll be arriving about now. Antistius is worried. He wants to know if you have any news for him.’

  ‘Gods!’ exclaimed Artemidorus. ‘Quickly, take me to an unguarded exit.’

  As the boy went out into the hall, Artemidorus put a scroll into his pocket and rapidly wrote out a few words on another:

  The day of the conspiracy is almost certainly today.

  I will provide a list of the conspirators later.

  He then followed the boy to one of the rear doors.