The Ides of March (4 page)

There was another possibility. Caesar’s intelligence was matched only by his cynicism, so perhaps he’d dismissed his official guard and established a second, invisible force who could watch over him while passing unnoticed.

There was a further unanswered question on Silius’s mind: what was Publius Sextius – the centurion known as ‘the Cane’ – up to? Caesar himself had sent the officer north, to Cisalpine Gaul. But as Silius faithfully fulfilled his given task of maintaining contact with Publius Sextius, who was currently in Modena, and passing on any news to Caesar, he remained puzzled about the true nature of the man’s mission. All he knew was that any dispatch from the north was of top priority. The messages were in code, obviously, and could be read only by the high commander himself.

Publius Sextius the war hero. The most valiant soldier of the republic. When Caesar had celebrated his Quadruple Triumph in Rome, Publius Sextius had paraded bare-chested to show off his decorations: the ghastly scars that criss-crossed his chest.

He was the senior centurion of the Twelfth Legion and had survived incredible ordeals. During the campaign in Gaul, in the battle against the Nervii tribe, he had fought on unflaggingly despite numerous wounds, barking out orders, inciting his legion to regroup and launch a counter-attack. The day finished in victory. After the battle, he was moved to a military camp where he could recover from his injuries, but when the camp came under siege, food and supplies were cut off for days on end. Nonetheless, when the enemy succeeded in breaking through the gate, there he was at the entrance to his tent in full armour. What he did next was the stuff of legends. Although he could barely stand, he convinced the others to join him in fighting off the enemy. When he was wounded again in close combat, his men managed to pull him out of the fray and drag him to safety.

Reduced to skin and bones, more dead than alive, he struggled through a long convalescence, regained his strength and returned to his place in the ranks. It was men such as Publius Sextius who had built the Roman Empire. And there were plenty more like him on both sides of the political divide, separated by their beliefs and by their allegiances during the Civil War.

Publius Sextius had earned his nickname, ‘the Cane’, because he never parted with the emblem of his rank: the sturdy cane of a grapevine, used to toughen up the young recruits. A man of unshakeable loyalty, he was one of the very few people Caesar knew he could trust blindly. He was indestructible, a man who didn’t know the meaning of fear. The mission he was carrying out must be of exceptional importance, because Caesar asked for news of him constantly. Silius couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was he doing up north. What task had the centurion been entrusted with?

As Silius followed this train of thought, he realized they’d already reached the doors to the Domus, with the litter following about twenty steps behind them.

Before entering, Caesar turned towards him and said, ‘Remember, at any hour of the day or night.’

‘Of course, commander.’ Silius nodded. ‘At any hour of the day or night.’

And while Caesar was being welcomed by the gatekeeper, Silius went to his office to check on the commander’s appointments scheduled for that day.

Just then the storm that had been threatening since dawn finally broke in an explosion of roaring thunder and pelting water. The big square emptied instantly and the marble pavement became as shiny as a mirror under the pouring rain.

3

Mutinae, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora secunda

Modena, 8 March, seven a.m.

T
HE FOG THAT
rose from the rivers, from the earth and from the rain-damp meadows had veiled everything: the fields and the vineyards, the farms scattered through the countryside, the stables and haylofts. Only the tips of the tallest trees emerged – the ancient oaks, elms and maples that had seen Hannibal and his elephants pass this way. Now the bare silent giants watched over the colonized land, which bore the marks of Roman centuriation: the plots were edged by long rows of poplar trees and by boundary stones identified by consecutive numbers and by direction.

Here and there farmers were at work pruning the grapevines which dripped milky tears, the sap already flowing through their veins in anticipation of the still-mute spring. Towards the west rose the walls of the city, their dank blocks made of grey hewn stone from the Apennines. To the south loomed the snowcovered peak of Mount Summano, a towering pyramid with a blunted top.

Suddenly a figure materialized in the fog – a man of sturdy build, his head and shoulders covered by a military cloak. He held a cane in one hand and wore heavy, mud-caked boots. He advanced on foot, leading his horse by the reins, down a path which led to a modest brick building whose curved clay roof tiles were adorned at the centre by a Gorgon’s mask. It was a small rural sanctuary dedicated to the nearby spring, which shot out of the ground a cubit high before gurgling away into a ditch which became lost to sight as it snaked through the countryside.

The man stopped at the temple wall and looked around as if he were expecting someone. The sun appeared through the misty haze as a pale disc, casting a milky light on the scene. The fields seemed deserted.

All at once, a voice rang out behind him.

‘Fog is a friend to certain encounters and in this land it is never lacking.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the man in the cloak, without turning.

‘My code name is Nebula, my friend. No stranger to fog myself, as my name attests.’

‘What news do you have for me?’

‘I’ll need a password before I can give you any. Better to be prudent in such times.’

‘Aeneas has landed.’

‘That’s right. Which means I’m speaking with a living legend: front-line centurion Publius Sextius of the Twelfth Legion, known as “the Cane”, hero of the Gallic War. They say that at Caesar’s triumph you paraded bare-chested to show off your battle scars. It seems to be impossible to kill you.’

‘Wrong. We’re all mortal. You just have to strike at the right spot.’

Publius Sextius turned to face his interlocutor.

‘No. Don’t,’ said the voice. ‘This is dangerous work. The fewer people see my face the better.’

Publius Sextius turned back towards the countryside. Stretching out before him were long rows of maples, to which the grapevines were tied. Dark against the brilliant green meadows.

‘Well, then?’

‘Rumours.’

‘That’s all you have to tell me? Rumours?’

‘These are quite consistent.’

‘Get to the point. What rumours are you talking about?’

‘One month ago someone approached the authorities of this city to obtain their support for the Cisalpine governor who will be named next year. These same authorities are in close contact with Cicero and other influential members of the Senate.’

A dog barked from a farmhouse that was wrapped in fog, making it look as if it was further away than it was in reality.

He was promptly answered by more barking and then a third dog joined in. They stopped suddenly and silence fell again.

‘Sounds like ordinary politicking to me. In any case, what does that have to do with my mission?’

‘More than it may seem,’ replied Nebula. ‘The Senate have already decided who they will appoint governor. Why are they seeking the support of the local authorities for this coming year? But that’s not all. You’ll have noticed that there is construction work going on in the city.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘They are reinforcing the city walls and building emplacements on the turrets for war machines. War against whom?’

‘I have no idea. Have you?’

‘If they’re not expecting an invasion from outside, and I don’t think they are, it’s likely that what they’re afraid of is a new civil war. And that suggests a very specific scenario. Quite a disturbing one, I might add.’

‘A scenario where Caesar is out of the picture, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Something of the sort. What else?’

‘Who will the new governor be?’

‘Decimus Brutus.’

‘Almighty gods!’

‘Decimus Brutus is, at this moment, assistant praetor and therefore, as I’ve said, has already been designated to take the office of governor next year. So why would he need to build up local support or reinforce the walls of Modena unless he knows that Caesar will no longer be around?’

Publius Sextius snorted and a burst of steam issued from his nose. It was still quite cold for the season.

‘Sorry, but I’m still not convinced of what you’re saying.

Couldn’t the work on the walls just be ordinary maintenance?’

‘There’s more,’ continued Nebula.

‘All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s hear.’

‘This is information that will cost you.’

‘I don’t have much money with me, but I do have this,’ said Publius Sextius, his hands flexing the cane that was a symbol of his rank.

‘What do you suppose I care about that?’ shot back Nebula.

‘Don’t think you can intimidate me. I’ve been doing this for a long time.’

‘I’m not leaving here until you tell me what I need to know. I was assured that I would be getting important information from you and get it I will. You decide how.’

Nebula fell silent for a long moment, weighing his options. When he began to speak again, it was in a different voice, as if he were another person. ‘Give me whatever you can, please. I need money. I spent a fortune to get this information and risked my neck as well. I’ve had to take out a loan and if I don’t pay them back they’ll slaughter me.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘Eight thousand.’

Publius Sextius opened one of the bags hanging from his horse’s rump and handed over a satchel. ‘Five thousand. It’s all I have for now, but if you give me the information I need you’ll get twice that.’

‘Publius Sextius is known as a man of his word,’ said Nebula.

‘That’s the truth,’ replied the centurion.

‘Six months ago, at Narbonne, after the Battle of Munda, while Caesar was still in Spain, someone was working on a plot to murder him.’

‘I’ve heard the rumours.’

‘We all have. But I have proof not only that the plot was put into effect but also that it may still be active.’

‘Names.’

‘Caius Trebonius.’

‘I know him. And?’

‘Cassius Longinus and Publius Casca, and maybe his brother. Those are the names I’m sure of. I also believe that Caesar himself knows something, or at least suspects something, though he’s not letting on. But there’s one name he doesn’t know and this is the true shocker. At Narbonne, Trebonius asked Mark Antony if he wanted to join the party.’

‘Watch out, Nebula. Words are stones.’

‘Or daggers. In any case, Antony refused the invitation and has never made any further mention of it.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘If Antony had spoken, do you suppose Trebonius would still be around?’

‘All right. But how much can we conclude from that? What I’m interested in is knowing whether this plot is still active. I want proof. The rumour is out and it’s impossible that Caesar hasn’t heard of it. What you’ve told me regarding Antony disturbs me. Did you hear about what happened at the Lupercalia?’

Nebula nodded. ‘Everyone knows about it.’

‘Fine. In the light of what you’ve just told me, Antony’s behaviour is suspect. He offered Caesar the king’s crown in front of the people of Rome. I would call that provocation, or, worse, a trap. Caesar’s reaction confirms it. Antony is no fool. He wouldn’t have done such a thing without a reason. One thing is certain: if Caesar had known what Antony was planning before it happened, he would have stopped him.’

‘I could learn more, but I need time.’

‘There’s no saying we’ve got the time. The situation might come to a head at any moment.’

‘You may be right about that.’

‘Well, then?’

‘There is a solution. Don’t wait here any longer. You leave now for Rome, taking a route that will allow me to reach you with messages and information.’

‘That’s unlikely. I’ll be moving fast.’

‘I have ways and means.’

‘As you wish.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll look for more proof.’

‘Do you have something specific in mind?’

‘Yes. But it’s still entirely hypothetical. In any case, before I take action of any sort, there’s something very important that I need to know.’

‘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 . . .’